Riya moved back to Mumbai on Tuesday.
I took the AirTrain from Jamaica on the E to see her off at JFK Terminal 4, which is a deeply unromantic place to have your heart broken, but there we were.
We met three years ago at a rooftop party in Bushwick that neither of us wanted to be at. She was the only other desi girl in the room and we clocked each other instantly, that little nod, that relief. By the end of the night we were sitting on the fire escape eating cold samosas she'd smuggled in her tote bag, talking about our mothers.
That's the thing about the friend who gets it. She never made me explain why I FaceTime home during Navratri. She knew the exact shade of guilt I carry for missing weddings. She'd send me a voice note at 2am just saying "beta, you okay?" in a perfect impression of my dad and I'd laugh so hard I'd forget I was lonely.
When your best friend moves back to Mumbai, people say "but you can visit!" and "there's WhatsApp!" and they're not wrong, they're just not right either. Because it's not the big things you lose. It's the Sunday nothing-plans. The last-minute chai at the Punjabi spot on 6th Street. The person who'd meet you at Astoria Park with no agenda.
I'm not okay, and I've decided that's allowed.
At the terminal she hugged me and said, "You built this whole life here, Pooja. Don't you dare shrink it now." And then she was through security, waving, her dupatta catching the airport light, and I stood there crying next to a Hudson News like a fool.
The J train home felt longer than usual. Everything does when someone's gone.
But here's what I'm holding onto: love that survives 12.5 hours of time difference isn't smaller. It just stretches. Riya, if you're reading this on your Mumbai balcony, I'll call you at your morning, my night. Same as always.
Distance is just geography. It was never us.
Love,