I leave for LaGuardia in an hour, but I somehow managed to finish packing early, so now I’m just sitting out on my balcony, waiting.
I love this balcony. I’ve loved reading and eating and napping and writing on this balcony. I’ve loved watching sunsets and wondering at the activities of the neighbors in the apartment building across from mine and wishing on planes. I’ve loved dreaming and planning and working here.
That’s what I hate about goodbyes. Less the leaving as much as the losing.
Wandering Times Square after my last Broadway show last night, this place that had come to feel like mine suddenly–wasn’t. I felt like I was already walking through a memory.
There was the movie theater where Mom and I saw “Inside Out” our first night here. There was John’s Pizza, whose carryout I literally lived off of the week leading up to Ch1Con. There was and there was and there was.
It’s funny the things you become sentimental about when you realize you’ll never have to deal with them again: The tourists crowding the sidewalks making a eight block walk take eight times as long as it needed to, trying to get from Broadway and 50th to the Times Square – 42nd St subway station. The overcrowded 7 train followed by the too-loud Q60 bus that comprised my hour commute home. The weird banging from the air conditioning unit of the apartment above mine as I fell asleep.
And I honestly don’t really know how to put into words how much this summer has meant to me and what leaving this place feels like. (The best I can do is that it’s like a sucking in my chest. Like New York and I bonded at some point while I’ve been here and now a plane’s going to rip us apart.)
And I’m trying not to get TOO melodramatic about this all, but I also want to remember what this feels like, because I want to remember how much I love this city and how I need Future Julia to come back.
And it kills me that the world isn’t going to stop when I leave. Other people will sit on my bench in Madison Square Park, and cool events will happen that I will be too far away to attend, and other people will get to stare at the Empire Stae Building day in and day out. And I won’t be here.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Ann Arbor. And I’m excited to go back. I just–also kind of don’t want to leave New York?
It’s kind of a miracle, being able to be selfish about these sorts of things.
But anyway, here I sit on my balcony. Watching the sun move across the sky. Wondering if the neighbors in the apartment building across from mine will notice when I’m gone. Wishing on planes that someday one will carry me back to here.
Thirty minutes to go.