I was forty minutes late. Not fashionably. Not tragically. Just the regular NYC late where the 6 train betrayed me, then I got off at the wrong stop, then I speed-walked in sandals that were not built for speed.
My friend was waiting for me in DUMBO, by Jane's Carousel, under the bridge, in a heat that would've excused anyone from waiting. I texted "almost there" three times, each one a lie of increasing size.
And she just… waited. When I finally arrived, breathless and apologizing in two languages, she looked up and said, "I got you an iced coffee, it's probably water now," and handed me a cup of melted regret. And I loved her so much I could've cried.
Here's what nobody tells you about being 24 in a big city: friendship becomes the whole scaffolding. The DUMBO kind of friend — the one who waits by the carousel while you fall apart on the subway — is worth more than any romance I've limped through here.
We walked down to the water and sat on the rocks looking at Manhattan doing its impossible skyline thing. She let me vent about work, about the boy who texts only after 11pm, about missing home. She didn't fix any of it. She just held it with me.
In Hindi there's this idea of apnapan — a belonging, a mine-ness. She feels like apnapan. Like a person who's simply yours.
The thing about making a life far from where you're from is that you have to build your family out of the people who show up. The ones who wait in DUMBO. The ones who buy you a coffee that turns to water and hand it over anyway.
We stayed until the streetlights came on and the bridge lit up and a wedding photoshoot elbowed us off our rock. We laughed about that for the whole walk to the F train.
I'm always going to be a little bit late. I'm just grateful for the people who stay.
Find your carousel person. Then never lose them.
Love,