Los Angeles. That was our end game. We were only staying in the South Florida humidity long enough to find jobs on the west coast. I was going to be a senior manager at PR firm and you were going to be a director of the newest film. But I grew tired of the waiting and you grew tired of my lust for Brooklyn, so I left.
I heard you finally made it last month. You succumbed to your fate and took a job as a grip on some indie being filmed in Pasadena. I’ve only seen you once. There was a video of you on Instagram losing your keys in the floorboards of a stairwell. You didn’t even realize the whole universe was rudely, cynically laughing at your weirdness and determination to rescue your keys with a magnet and some floss. I felt bad for a second, but then remembered that I am no longer the one responsible for your happiness.
I heard you hate it there. The nights are cold and the days are filled with brown scenery sprinkled with cacti.
I heard you asked Mel about me. She told you I was back in the city, working for a nonprofit…and there was some Wall St boy who almost stole me away on the corner of Madison Ave. and 42nd.
I heard you regret that you never spoke to me again after I left for the city.
I heard you are now lost in Los Angeles, the very city you were supposed to be found in.
And I am found among the rickety subway crossing the Williamsburg Bridge as another sun sets on the East River.
Hear me— Don’t stay lost just because you swore by Hollywood Blvd and Universal Studios. You’re more than that. Find yourself, wherever that might be. Even it means giving up on what you originally sold your soul for. Even it means permanently giving up on us, and the world we dreamed up for us to exist in. It’s okay to let go.