I met Reshma on my third day in New York, both of us lost outside a WeWork, both of us pretending we weren't. Three years later she is my oldest NYC friend, and on Sunday we spent the whole day in Astoria doing absolutely nothing important.
We took the N to Ditmars and just walked. No plan. That's the luxury of an old friendship, the not-planning.
We got Greek food on Broadway, the Astoria Broadway, not the Manhattan one, and split everything because that's how we've always eaten. She takes the last bite of things and I let her because that's love.
My oldest NYC friend knows the version of me that cried in a stairwell after my first bad week at work. She knows the version that couldn't afford both groceries and a MetroCard. She's seen all the drafts of me. That's rare in a city where everyone meets you already edited.
We talked about home, because we both left it. She's from Pune, I'm from Ahmedabad, and somewhere in Astoria we've built a small imitation of the Sundays we used to have with our families. Long, lazy, food-heavy, argument-optional.
At one point she said "you seem happier this year," and I hadn't noticed until she said it. That's what an oldest NYC friend does. She keeps the receipts on your growth.
We ended up at a bakery near 30th Avenue eating something with too much cream, watching Astoria do its Sunday thing. Families, aunties, kids on scooters, three languages within earshot. It felt like a neighborhood that hadn't forgotten how to slow down.
Before we split at the station she hugged me the way you hug someone you'll see next week and the week after. No drama. Just certainty.
I took the N home thinking about how you don't find chosen family in New York. You build it, one boring perfect Sunday at a time.
Call your oldest friend. Go somewhere with no plan.
Love,