Priya is moving to Chicago. She told me weeks ago, but it only became real on her rooftop in Astoria last night, surrounded by half-taped boxes and a city she's about to stop being a part of.
We met three years ago, both of us new, both of us pretending we knew how the city worked. She was the first person who made New York feel survivable. The friend who moved away wasn't supposed to be a category I'd ever assign to her.
We sat on the roof with cheap wine in mismatched mugs because all her glasses were packed. The Manhattan skyline did its glittering thing across the water, indifferent, the way it always is. The N train rattled by below us every few minutes like punctuation.
We didn't talk about the move much. We talked about everything else. The time we got lost in DUMBO at 2am. The terrible dates. The night she held my hair when I had food poisoning and the night I held hers when she got dumped. Three years of small things that add up to the thing you can't say out loud without your voice cracking.
There's a specific grief to a friend who moved away that nobody warns you about. It's not a breakup, there's no villain, nobody did anything wrong. She's just chasing a good job and cheaper rent and a life that makes sense. And I'm so happy for her I could scream, and I'm so sad I could lie down on her packed-up rooftop and not get up.
We quoted Dil Chahta Hai, obviously. The whole movie is about friends scattering and finding their way back. She did the dramatic line and I laughed so hard I nearly knocked my wine off the ledge.
The truth is New York is built on this. People arrive, people collide, people leave. The friend who moved away is practically a New York rite of passage, and knowing that doesn't make Astoria feel any less empty this morning.
We hugged for too long by the stairwell. She said, "You'll come to Chicago." I said, "You'll come back." Both of us lying gently, both of us meaning it anyway.
Love doesn't require the same zip code. I'm just going to have to keep telling myself that.
Love,