[…]

I tried, eventually, to resuscitate myself by artificial means. I saw friends, and spoke to my parents on the phone. I listened to music and started running. I started saving money. I went to museums, admired Modigliani.

None of this worked. I hated you for all of it. Hated you when I was inspired, because you inspired me. Hated you when I found some excitement in the city, because I imagined your life was far more exciting. I hated you because you never wrote. I hated you for letting me leave. I hated you for not rerouting my plane back to your bedroom. I hated you for not following me. I hated you not because I was alone, but because I was halved. I hated you at parties, because I was only functioning, merely charming. I hated everyone for not being you. Hated you for not being me. Above all, I hated myself for hating so much.

But eventually my shelves filled with books, my walls with paintings, and a life piled up around me. Everywhere I’ve ever gone has eventually become home, and Brooklyn was no different.