Reya moved back to Delhi on Sunday and I have not been okay since.
We met three years ago in the checkout line at the Patel Brothers in Jackson Heights, both of us reaching for the same brand of ghee, both of us far from home in the exact same shape.
She was my person here. The one I called when the L train stranded me, the one who came over with khichdi when I had food poisoning, the one who understood without explaining why I sometimes cry at Lata Mangeshkar songs on a random Wednesday.
The friend who moved back home leaves a specific kind of hole. It is not just missing them. It is the quiet math afterward, counting who is left, realizing the number keeps shrinking.
We took the AirTrain from Jamaica together, both pretending we were fine. At JFK Terminal 4 she hugged me so hard my ribs hurt and said, in Hindi, that I better visit, and I said of course, knowing how expensive of course is.
I took the E back alone. Astoria felt enormous and empty in a way it never had. I walked down 30th Avenue past the Greek bakeries and the hookah spots and the guy who sells corn, and everything looked the same and felt completely different.
Here is what I am learning about the friend who moved back home. New York is a city built on leaving. People arrive with such certainty and then the certainty wears thin, the rent wears them down, or home just pulls harder than the dream.
Reya was not defeated. She was choosing her parents, her language, a slower kind of life. I understood it completely, which is exactly why it hurt.
I keep thinking of that Dil Chahta Hai idea, that friendships have seasons, that not everyone walks the whole road with you. I always found that line sad. Now I find it kind. Some people are meant to walk a stretch with you and then turn off toward their own home.
I made two chais tonight out of habit before I remembered. Poured one down the sink.
Come back someday, Reya. I will keep your spot warm.
Who is your person here? Hold them close this week.
Love,