Dear New York

A year ago, I thought loving this city meant never wanting to leave it.

Jun 17, 2026

In my senior year of high school, during those liminal weeks before graduation, my English teacher, who I worshiped because he politely pretended not to notice the autobiographical elements of my “fiction,” had me write a letter to New York. He promised to mail it back to me so it would be waiting when I returned home from my first year of college.

I arrived home sweaty and lopsided from hauling three checked bags up my Brooklyn stoop. When I finally pushed open the front door, letting my suitcases collapse behind me, I found the letter, which I had completely forgotten about, waiting on the floor. It was next to a Reformation package, so obviously my prose would sit unopened a while longer until I’d tried everything on. I got to it eventually, and here is what it said:

Dear New York,

Your concrete is what my feet know and what my hands met that time it was wet and I carved in my initials. I can’t fall asleep without your ambulance sirens singing me lullabies. I’ve grown accustomed to drifting off towards dreamland while wondering which of your children is dying tonight.

Much to my father’s chagrin, I still can’t drive. Why should I, New York? Underground tunnels are your veins and I’ve memorized the pulse. Thanks to your density, my left-side neighbors make my tables and chairs rattle—teaching me what love sounds like.

I had my first kiss on a park bench of yours at thirteen. I told him he didn’t need to walk me home because he tasted like sardines. You and I laughed our way back to 7th Street just the two of us.

It was underneath the heat of one of your Harlem street lamps that I fell in love. I loved him because he reminded me of you: moody, witty, jazzy, and lanky. When we no longer had you in common, it ended, so thanks for that, New York.

Come to think of it, you hurt my feelings quite a bit. You subject me to the occasional catcall, you placed me irreversibly at the kids’ table, and you told me that I couldn’t hack it at dad’s alma mater, that the midwest was more my speed. I know we were in a fight that day, but look at what you did, New York.

I suppose my shrink would say that disagreements in a lifelong relationship like ours are healthy.

I’ve always been proud to be your friend, New York. Unfortunately, I know you can’t truthfully reciprocate this sentiment. You shook your head at me that year I had the stripey copper hair and clung desperately to double digits on a scale. I can’t blame you, New York. I would pretend not to know her too. Thankfully, they have little orange bottles for what she was dealing with.

You grew me up. You closed the thumb-sized gap in my two front teeth. You nudged me to do away with shoelace belts and buy jeans that fit. You convinced me it was time to trade Lincoln Place for Joralemon Street. You handed me the penny, heads-side-up, to scratch-off my first lottery ticket.

You fed me. You brushed my hair. You tickled my spine.

I could walk your blocks forever, aimlessly. I always end up at Cafe Regular on President Street—yes, New York, because that boy lives down the street and I want his mom to remember I exist. I sit cross-legged atop the red leather couch and crack open a notebook that still has a sticker with the cost on it. I write bad poetry. I glance over my shoulder and see that the man sitting next to me is coding something. Harmony.

I feel you close on Fridays, an hour past curfew. I felt you at 13, my knees against turf. Though a couple sips immobilized me, you made me feel invincible. At 14, dancing with the girls on Ellie’s roof. I could see all of your jewelry, New York. At 15, stringing him along because he was blind enough to think that I was special. At 16, hating the feeling of my bare shoulders against someone else’s sheets. At 17, lovesick, emphasis on the sick. At 18, nostalgia for you seeps through my Adidas.

Last week I spoke to my grandmother. She congratulated me, but said that she didn’t believe that I would go through with it, that I wasn’t strong enough to leave New York.

“Your parents are wasting their money,” she said.

Let’s go prove her wrong, Chicago.

Go Nets,

Zoey

That sign-off, “Go Nets,” is a little embarrassing given how quickly I jumped on the Knicks bandwagon last week. In my defense, my city was vibrating the way it only does when everyone decides to care about the same thing at the same time, and who was I to resist?

Anyways, reading this now, I’m struck by how much has changed and how much that girl would love to hear it. I have a driver’s license. I put neon green relish on my hot-dogs. I saw a boy I had never seen before at a party and haven’t left his side since. The girl who wrote that letter couldn’t imagine falling asleep without blaring city noises outside her window. Now I can. Instead, I’ve become dependent on the sound of his breathing.

He’s not from here, but he already knows how to get around better than me. I watch as his mental map updates everywhere we go, hand-in-hand. I pick him up from his office off Bryant Park and he tells me about his day as we walk from Midtown to the West Village. I realize that I could get used to this and cross my fingers that he’s thinking the same thing.

A year ago, I thought loving New York meant never wanting to leave it. Now I think it means trusting that it’ll still be there for me when I come back. So I’ll leave again. I’ll wander. I’ll take my time.

The city isn’t going anywhere and I’m sure it will love whatever version of me returns.