Reha moved back to Mumbai on Sunday. I helped her pack a life into three suitcases and one carry-on that we both knew was overweight.
We met three years ago at a rooftop party in Bushwick, both of us clutching drinks we didn't like, both of us the only other desi girl in the room. She said "finally" and I laughed and that was it. Friendship, instant, no auditions.
She was the one I called when I got food poisoning at 2am. The one who came to Jackson Heights with me when I was homesick and needed the specific comfort of a place that smelled like home. We'd take the 7 out there and eat until we couldn't move.
Her job didn't renew her visa. That's the whole boring, brutal reason. Paperwork decided our friendship's geography.
When your best friend moves back to Mumbai, people say "but you'll visit!" and "there's WhatsApp!" and they mean well. But they don't understand that she was my witness. The person who knew my exact face in this exact city.
We went to Devon Diner one last time. She cried into a masala dosa and I pretended I wasn't crying too. Then we walked to the L and stood on the platform not saying much.
What nobody tells you about immigrant friendships is how fragile they are. Everyone is one visa, one job, one family emergency away from being gone. We build these homes out of each other and they can be dismantled by an email.
Her flight was Sunday night. I didn't go to JFK. I couldn't. We said goodbye at her empty apartment in Ridgewood, both of us laughing at how bare it looked.
The time difference is nine and a half hours. She's asleep when I'm awake now.
Come back, Reha. Or don't. Just stay somewhere I can find you.
Love,