Half my New York friendships have the lifespan of a sublet. People arrive, we get close, then a job or a lease or a breakup sends them somewhere else and we become Instagram-likes.
Riya stayed. Three years now. Sunday in Astoria with her reminded me how rare that is.
We took the N out to her neighbourhood because she refuses to travel to Brooklyn on weekends on principle, and honestly, fair. We got gyros from the place she swears by, the one with the plastic chairs and the owner who calls everyone "my friend."
Sunday in Astoria has a specific rhythm. Slower. Families everywhere. Old Greek men arguing about something joyful. The smell of grilled meat on every other block.
We walked to Astoria Park and found a bench by the water, the Hell Gate Bridge arcing above us, Manhattan small and polite in the distance.
Riya is the friend who remembers things. She remembered the name of the designer who rejected me in my first month here. She remembered my dadi's death anniversary before I did this year. She texts "eaten?" exactly like my mother, which is either sweet or a conspiracy.
We didn't do anything remarkable. That's the whole thing. Spending Sunday in Astoria with her was just sitting, eating, talking, going quiet, talking again. The kind of day you can't manufacture.
At one point she said, "You've gotten more yourself here. Less apologizing." I almost cried into my gyro, which would have been a waste of a good gyro.
In Bollywood friendship gets a whole song sequence. In real life it's a park bench and someone who knows your coffee order and your grief order.
The sun went orange over the river. A kid flew a kite badly and triumphantly.
I think about how much of this city is people leaving. And then I think about Riya, who stayed, and how a friendship that stays is its own kind of home.
Stay where you can, with whoever stays with you.
Love,