Neha left New York on Wednesday. She moved to Chicago for a job that was, annoyingly, the right decision. That doesn't make the Lower East Side feel any less hollow.
We met three years ago at a rooftop thing neither of us wanted to be at, and within an hour we'd escaped to get dumplings on Eldridge. That was that. She became the person I called from every subway platform.
The friend who moved away from the Lower East Side was my anchor here. She lived on Rivington and I know that stretch of the city through her: the wine bar we went to when things were bad, the bodega cat we both loved, the corner where we cried once at 2am over a boy who was not worth a single tear.
We did the goodbye dinner Tuesday at our usual spot on Orchard. Ordered everything. Laughed too loud. Then walked around the neighborhood one last time like we were saying bye to the buildings themselves.
Here's what nobody warns you about adult friendship: it's the great love story nobody writes songs about. In every Bollywood film it's romance, romance, romance. But Neha held me through this city in a way no romance ever has.
The friend who moved away from the Lower East Side leaves behind a map full of ghosts. I'll pass her corner and my stomach will drop for months. That's just how it works.
At the end she hugged me too tight outside the F train at Delancey and said, "You're going to be fine, and also, come to Chicago in November." I said okay to both, meaning the second one more.
We promise to visit. We mostly will. But the everyday version of her, the texts-at-midnight version, the show-up-in-fifteen-minutes version, that's gone now.
The city stays. The people we love in it don't always.
I'm proud of her. I miss her. Both things, all the way down.
Love,