New York Edition

New York was never supposed to be personal.

It was a work trip — the kind with a packed schedule, a hotel someone else booked, and the firm intention of being back home by Friday with my suitcase still half-organized and my life exactly where I'd left it. Professional. Contained. In and out.

And for the first two days, that's exactly what it was.

Then I went to Joe's Pizza.

Because one of my best friend told me that it was THE best pizza place in the city. It was late, and I was hungry in that specific New York way where the city makes you feel like you haven't eaten in three days. I ordered a slice, found a spot, and started eating standing up like everyone else, watching the street move like it had somewhere urgent to be.

That's when HE showed up. Or maybe I showed up. Honestly the details are a little blurry and I think that's fine.

What I know is that one slice turned into a walk that had no destination, and somewhere around midnight I was sitting on a stoop in the West Village thinking — I can't leave on Friday.

So I didn't.

I extended the trip, moved hotels, cancelled exactly the kind of plans that deserved to be cancelled, and gave myself a few more days in a city that had, without asking for permission, become something different than what I'd planned.