Reha left on Thursday. Moved to LA for a job she'd be insane to turn down. I drove with her to the airport and cried in a way that embarrassed the driver.
Reha was my first real friend here. The one who taught me which bodega had the good chai-adjacent situation, who sat with me through my worst homesick winter, who understood without explanation why I needed to find a place that did proper dhokla.
We lived our whole friendship on the 6 train. She was uptown, I'd visit, we'd ride down together to dinner, to thrift, to nothing. The 6 train was our hallway. Our living room with windows.
This week I took the 6 alone for the first time since she left and it undid me a bit. I kept the seat next to me empty out of habit, like she might materialize at 86th Street with too many shopping bags and a story.
Nobody warns you about this kind of grief. She's not gone-gone. She's a text away, a flight away, alive and thriving and sending me palm tree photos. But the daily texture of her is gone. The ambient her-ness of my city.
There's a Hindi word, viraha, the ache of separation from someone you love. The old poets wrote whole epics about it. I always thought it was for lovers. Turns out it works for the friend who knew your coffee order and your darkest 3AM thoughts equally well.
The 6 train doesn't know she's gone. It runs the same. Same announcement at Grand Central, same crush at Union Square. The city is indifferent to your personal losses, which is somehow both cruel and a comfort.
I called her from the platform. She picked up on the second ring like always. "Tell me everything," she said, and I did, all of it, the whole boring beautiful day.
We'll be okay. Some friendships are built to stretch instead of break.
But for now I'm letting the 6 train be a little haunted.
Some people leave and the route they walked stays warm for a while.
Love,