My best friend is leaving New York and I have been walking around all week with a stone in my chest.
Her name isn't important, but she's the one. The one who picked me up from JFK when I first moved here terrified and jet-lagged. The one who sat with me on the floor of my empty apartment eating dosas off paper plates because I couldn't afford furniture yet.
She got a job in Chicago. A good one. A better one. I told her I was so happy for her and I meant it and I also went home and cried on the 6 train, quietly, into my scarf, which is a very specific New York skill.
When your best friend is leaving New York, the grief is strange because nobody died. Everyone's fine. You're supposed to be supportive and mature. But something is ending anyway, and the city itself feels different knowing she won't be in it.
We did our goodbye dinner Thursday at a little Himalayan place in Jackson Heights, our spot, the one we found in year one and never let go of. We split a plate of momos and a plate of chowmein and pretended it wasn't goodbye. We laughed about the time we got caught in the rain in the East Village with no umbrella. About the guy I dated who she immediately, correctly, hated.
You build a family here out of people you're not related to. That's the miracle and the terror of being an immigrant in this city. Your people become your everything because they're all you've got. And when one of them leaves, a whole load-bearing wall of your New York goes with them.
She hugged me on the 7 train platform and said, "You made this city home for me." I couldn't even answer. I just held on longer than was polite.
My best friend is leaving New York, and I'm learning that loving people means letting them get on trains that don't come back this way.
Chicago better deserve her. Come back for garba, at least.
Love,