My closest friend in New York moved away this week, and I rode the L train home from her goodbye party by myself, watching my own reflection in the dark window between Bedford and Lorimer.
Her name is Reva. We met at a fashion event in the Lower East Side two years ago, both of us standing awkwardly by the drinks table, both of us the only brown girls in the room, and she turned to me and said something so dry and funny I snorted wine out of my nose.
That was it. That was the whole origin story. The city gives you people sometimes, randomly, like a prize you didn't know you'd entered for.
She's moving to London for a job she'd be insane not to take. I told her that. I meant it. And then I went home on the L train and felt something crack quietly in my chest.
Here's what nobody warns you about adult friendship in a transient city — the friend who moved away doesn't just leave a gap in your calendar. She takes a whole version of you with her. The version who texted her memes at 2am. The one who could say I'm not okay today and get a reply that was just a dumplings address and a time.
New York is built on people leaving. Everyone's always on their way somewhere. And when the friend who moved away is the one who made the city feel survivable, you have to figure out how to do it alone again.
At her party in Williamsburg we ate too much, cried a little, laughed more. She gave me her good lamp, the warm one, and a jar of the achaar her mom sends her. I gave her a hug that lasted too long by normal standards and the right amount by ours.
On the L train home I didn't text anyone. I just let myself miss her in advance, which is a strange and useless thing to do, but grief doesn't check the calendar.
The friend who moved away will still be my friend. I know this. Time zones are survivable. We survived worse.
But the city feels a little bigger tonight. A little colder. One lamp warmer.
Love the people the city gives you. Hold them before the L train takes them away.
Love,