I had a bad week. Not a dramatic one. Just the slow-grinding kind where nothing explodes but everything feels heavier than it should, and by Thursday I was lying on my floor in the LES staring at the ceiling like it owed me money.
I'd texted my friend Reya something pathetic. Just a couple of lines. Didn't ask her to do anything. That's not the kind of friend I am, I hate being a burden, I was raised to say I'm fine before anyone even finishes asking.
At 11PM my buzzer went off.
It was Reya. Holding a paisley plastic bag. She'd taken the J train all the way from Bushwick, which if you know the J at night, is basically an act of war against your own comfort.
And inside the bag were samosas. From Jackson Heights. She'd gone all the way to Jackson Heights, then all the way to me, on a weeknight, because I sent a sad text and didn't even ask.
I cried. Obviously. I cry a lot in these posts, I'm aware.
We sat on my floor and ate samosas with too much green chutney and she let me complain for an hour without once telling me to look on the bright side, which is the highest form of love, honestly.
This is the thing nobody tells you about moving to a new country alone. You leave your whole family behind. And then, slowly, terrifyingly, you build a new one out of people who choose you.
Reya is not related to me. She's from Chennai, I'm from Ahmedabad, we met at a mutual friend's Holi thing two years ago and argued about which state has better food. But at 11PM on a bad Thursday, she is my family. Full stop.
Chosen family isn't a soft, fuzzy concept. It's concrete. It's someone taking the J train with samosas because you sounded off. It's showing up when nobody asked. It's the friends who become the people you'd call from the hospital.
My nani used to say the people who feed you when you're low are the ones who really love you. She wasn't wrong about much.
Text the sad friend. Better yet, bring the samosas.
Love,