new york city

intro

I step off the plane and there it is again — that ridiculous, heart-squeezing love I have for this city. It's probably unhealthy how much I adore New York, like being obsessed with someone who doesn't know you exist but somehow makes you feel seen anyway. The thing about New York is that it lets me try on different versions of myself.

See, today I might be Tourist-Ash, dragging my mom through Times Square and taking selfies at the Brooklyn Bridge (while pretending to be annoyed but secretly living for it). Tomorrow I'm Fancy-Night-Out-Ash, dining at the Polo Bar, or twirling chopsticks at Nobu.

My afternoons belong to bookstores, fingers tracing spines at the Strand, my nose deep in dog-eared poetry while I down what must be my fifth oat latte of the day.

But I think my favourite version of this city might be the early mornings, when it is still half asleep. There's something about sliding into a booth at a diner with nothing but coffee steam and possibility rising around me, or standing alone in a quiet corner of the MET before the crowds arrive.

october, 8th

We treat ourselves to a brunch that stretches past the point of reasonability. We're still sipping coffee refills long after the plates have been cleared and the waitstaff begins their subtle choreography of "maybe wrap it up?". But this is New York, and time feels different here — elastic and generous even when it's not.

The train takes us up to 72nd, that sweet spot where the city exhales a little. Inside the Natural History Museum, we drift through corridors like we're underwater, suspended between dinosaur bones that turn us into wide-eyed kids.

"Look at this one," I whisper, though there's no actual need to whisper. It just feels right under the soaring ceilings that hold centuries of wonder. We stand shoulder to shoulder, lost in the magic of things that existed long before us and will exist long after.

after, we stumble back into present time and make our way to the park, where the afternoon light hits everything at that specific golden angle that somehow even makes garbage cans look beautiful. Our fingers curl around paper cups filled with what could charitably be called decent coffee (but isn't), and we don't care because it's warm and we're here.

Around us, autumn is gently claiming the city — not the postcard version with vibrant foliage and apple-cheeked children, but the real New York autumn: a few amber leaves skittering across concrete, that particular slant of light that feels both melancholy and hopeful, the collective rustle of everyone pulling light jackets a little tighter across their chests. The city is changing season like it's shrugging into a familiar jumper, and somehow I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

september, 13th

so, i haven't told anyone at home that i'm in the us. i don't know why, but there's something rather delicious about having a secret this size, about existing in a city where no one is expecting me to be. No "how's the trip?" texts to answer, no Instagram stories to update. Just me, untethered and invisible.

my friends here know though. tonight, i meet up with matty and cassie for dinner at eleven madison park, where i'm suddenly hyper-aware of my non-existent table manners. waiters explain dishes like revealing the plot of a novel, while i nod along, pretending i can taste all the subtle notes they described, when all i can really think is "well, shit, that's a tasty veg."

after dinner come drinks at a nearby bar — a rundown place with scratched wooden tables and bartenders who won't smile until your third visit. one drink becomes three becomes "should we get another round?" and the answer, obviously, is yes.

by midnight, we drunkenly roam the streets of chelsea. cassie tells stories about their childhood that make me laugh so hard my ribs hurt, and for a moment, i forget i'm just a visitor here, someone just passing through.

the city wraps around us like a living thing, all concrete breath and neon pulse. and still, my secret stays tucked inside, getting smaller and less important with each block we walked. Maybe tomorrow I'll tell someone where I am. Or maybe I'll keep this feeling — this weightless, untraceable joy — to myself.

april 5th

I'm fucking miserable, but at least the garbage trucks and honking cabs and twenty-four-hour delis don't care if i'm barely holding on. New York just says: "Yeah, everything's fucked. Want a bagel?"