My best friend moved away this week. Not far in the grand scheme — just to Chicago — but far enough that I can no longer text "come over" and have her at my door in forty minutes with wine and complaints.
Her name is Reshma. We met at a rooftop party in the LES three years ago, both of us doing that thing where you cling to the only other brown girl in the room, and we never stopped clinging.
After I helped her load the last box, I got on the 6 train alone. And the seat beside me stayed empty the whole way down, which is basically impossible on the 6, and it felt personal.
Nobody warns you that New York is a transient city. People come here to become something and then they become it somewhere cheaper. Everyone is always half-arriving or half-leaving. You make a best friend and the city quietly whispers, enjoy it, this is on loan.
We used to go to a dumpling place near Canal, then walk to a wine bar on the LES where the bartender knew us. I went to that same bar tonight. Alone. Ordered for one. The bartender said, "Where's your other half?" and I said, "Chicago," and he poured me a little extra without a word.
There is a line in every DDLJ-era Bollywood film about how the ones who are yours will always come back to you. I want to believe it. I mostly do. But belief does not fill an empty 6 train seat.
Here is what I am learning about friendship in a city like this: you have to hold people loosely and love them completely at the same time. It is an impossible posture. You do it anyway.
Reshma texted from her new apartment: "come visit, I already found a chaat place." And just like that the ache got a little door in it.
Distance is real. But so is a friend who finds the chaat place first, thinking of you.
Who's your person? Text them before this city moves them.
Love,