My friend Riya is leaving New York. She's moving back to Chicago and I spent Wednesday in her half-empty Astoria apartment, wrapping her mismatched glasses in newspaper and pretending I was fine.
Nobody warns you about this part of NYC. Everyone talks about the rats and the rent and the strangers on the N train. Nobody tells you the real heartbreak is watching your people leave one by one.
Riya was my first real friend here. We met at a rooftop thing in Long Island City three years ago, both of us hovering near the snacks, both of us clearly out of place. She's the one I called at 2am. She's the one who came over with khichdi when I had the flu, even though she can't cook, because she looked up a recipe just for me.
And now her apartment is boxes. Now the little Astoria pocket that was ours — the diner on 31st, the wine bar with the terrible name, the walk to Astoria Park by the water — it all still exists but the person I did it with won't.
We sat on her floor and ate dumplings off a paper towel because the plates were packed. She said, "You'll be okay." I said, "You're the one leaving, why are you comforting me." We both laughed and then neither of us was really laughing.
The hard truth about making a life in New York is that this city is a train station pretending to be a home. People come, people go, and you're the one left standing on the platform waving.
I'll take the N to Astoria this weekend anyway. Some places you keep visiting for the ghost of who you were happy with there.
Love the people who leave loudly. Grieve them softly. Then keep going.
Love,