I had a bad month. Not dramatic-bad. Quiet-bad. The kind where you cancel plans and go grey inside and become, frankly, a terrible friend.
Meera didn't let me disappear.
We met over dumplings at a tiny place in the East Village on Tuesday, the kind with maybe eight tables and steam fogging the window. I'd cancelled on her twice. She just rebooked twice without making me feel like garbage about it.
That's the thing about a real friendship in NYC. This city makes it so easy to vanish. Everyone's busy, everyone's on a different train line, everyone's got a reason. Flaking is basically the local dialect.
So when someone keeps showing up, keeps texting even when you go quiet, that's not small. That's the whole thing.
Meera is from Delhi. We met at a party in Bushwick two years ago, the only two desi girls in a room full of finance boys, and we found each other across it like magnets. We've been each other's people ever since.
At dinner she didn't ask me to explain the bad month. She just told me about her disaster of a date, the guy who talked about crypto for forty minutes, and slowly, dumpling by dumpling, she pulled me back into the world.
A real friendship in NYC isn't the brunches or the birthday parties. It's the person who notices you've gone quiet and reaches into the quiet to find you.
We walked to the 6 train after, arms linked, September finally cool enough for a jacket. She said, you don't have to be okay for me, you just have to answer the phone. And I nearly cried on Astor Place.
There's a line in a film my sister loves, about how you find one person who feels like home. I always thought it meant romance. I think now it might mean this. A girl and some dumplings and no need to explain yourself.
Text the friend back. She's been worried.
Love,