My friend Meera is leaving New York. She's moving to Austin for a job and a boyfriend and, she says, "a life where I can afford a couch and a sky." I'm happy for her. I'm devastated. Both are true and neither cancels the other.
We got one last dosa this week at Saravana Bhavan in Curry Hill, on Lexington around 26th, because that's where we always went when one of us was falling apart. The friend who left New York and I have eaten a lot of sambar through a lot of breakups.
She was my first real friend here. Met her three years ago when I was crying in an H&M fitting room over nothing and everything, and she slid a tissue under the door and said, "the lighting in here would make anyone cry." That was it. Sisters.
Here's what no one tells you about the friend who left New York. It's not the goodbye that gets you. It's the after. The random Tuesday when you want to send a voice note about a stranger's outfit and remember she's two time zones away, probably somewhere with parking.
We walked from the restaurant down toward Madison Square Park. She talked about how tired she was of the grind, the rent, the winters. I understood every word and couldn't imagine leaving. That's the thing about this city — it exhausts some people out and holds others hostage in the best way.
We hugged for too long by the subway. She took the 6, I took the 6 the other way. Very cinematic. Very DDLJ, except no one ran and caught a train.
I cried a little between stops, quietly, like a professional New Yorker.
The friend who left New York gave me her good espresso machine and half her plants. I'm keeping both alive out of spite and love.
Some people are just passing through your city. You still let them fill it.
Love,