For the first time in maybe a year, I said no to everything this Friday night. No dinner, no rooftop bar in the LES, no last-minute text asking if I'm coming out.
I stayed home in Astoria and I made Maggi. Two-minute noodles that take twelve minutes, extra masala, an egg cracked in because I'm an adult now, apparently.
And then I climbed up to my building's rooftop, which is technically not allowed, with the bowl and a spoon and my whole self.
Here is something I'm still learning at 24. Being alone is not the same thing as being lonely. I used to confuse them constantly. I used to fill every empty evening because empty felt like failure.
But on that rooftop, with the N train rumbling somewhere below and the Manhattan skyline doing its impossible glowing thing across the water, I felt full. Not fixed, not enlightened, just full.
I thought about how in my family, being alone was almost suspicious. Someone always had to be with you, in the room, in the conversation, in your business. Love as constant presence. I understood it and I also fled halfway across the world from it.
So this rooftop moment felt a little stolen. A little rebellious. Just me and my Maggi and the whole city not needing anything from me.
I put on an old playlist, the kind with Lata Mangeshkar songs my Ba loved, and I let one play while the sky went from orange to that bruised purple Astoria does so well in August.
I didn't take a single photo. That felt important. Some evenings don't need to be proof of anything.
I came back down when the noodles were gone and the air turned cool. I slept better than I have in weeks.
Learning to be my own good company, one Friday at a time.
Love,