In the twenty-minute ride from Bed-Stuy to Bushwick, each moment felt like an eternity. I turned to my friend Diandra and said, “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

We were heading to meet our other friends Sara and Steven for the first time as a group in over a decade. Back when we were teenagers, we worked together at Providence’s Alternative Rock station, 95.5 WBRU. That summer was filled with us zip-tying promotional banners for Narragansett Beer during the station’s free summer concert and rushing to give Sara food to break her fast at sunset during Ramadan.

“I haven’t seen Sara since 2013,” Diandra shared.

I started replaying the past ten years – I had seen Steven the year prior, but I had only spoken to Sara on Instagram lately. In fact, I couldn’t remember when I last saw her in person. I opened my Google Photos app to look for evidence of our last interaction and found a photo of her at brunch in Providence. Time stamp: 2017. Six years ago.

A week prior, I learned that Steven would be visiting New York at the same time as Diandra, so I asked (read: coerced) all of us to have a (far too overdue) reunion.

Finally, Diandra and I arrived at Sara’s street. We walked up the stoop and rang the doorbell. I could feel the eagerness in my stomach. It was like teetering on the edge of a roller coaster – I knew the drop was coming, but my mind was processing it slower than my body.

Then it hit. I felt the rush of the drop when Sara and Steven ran down the stairs to greet us and bring us to the third floor.

“It’s so good to see you,” I said as I walked into the doorway. I gave Sara a tight hug to prove she was in front of me. After all this time, I thought I was imagining her.

She hugged me back and said, “You’re still so small!” as she patted my head. “I didn’t grow!” I laughed to her and then ran over to squeeze Steven hello.

We entered the apartment and each cooed at the exposed brick and pink dining nook (which Sara painted herself). Sara pointed out all of her Facebook marketplace furniture finds and encouraged us to meet her three cats. Though we tried to entice them out from under her bed, they stayed nestled in the darkness. Sara let them be and went to set the tea kettle.

As I washed my hands, Sara mentioned she was running low on paper towels. “You know how it is,” she started, “Grad school budget.” I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel.

After the water boiled and tea steeped, we walked up to the roof. We took a seat at the glass patio table and snuggled up in blankets. I wrapped myself in a fleece Halloween-themed throw covered in a pumpkin print and cuddled against my mug. Diandra walked to the ledge, documenting as she does best, taking photos of the view and candids of us mid-conversation at the table.

As we sat, I looked ahead at the cool blue of the November sky. It was just before 5 PM, and the sun was making its final descent. A rich, warm orange met the Manhattan skyline behind Sara and Diandra smoking cigarettes and Steven drinking tea.

“You’re crying,” Diandra says to me. I nodded. I was.

This lightness in me felt like a lore that existed only in movies. Maybe only in my dreams. My eyes were tearing up, but I was not sad. In fact, quite the opposite.

If you asked me at 18, I could never have dreamed of sitting on a rooftop in Bushwick with people I met at a radio station on Benevolent Street. All of a sudden, we were twenty-eight, catching up on life one hundred and fifty miles away from where we met. For those few hours on the roof, we shared stories about the health issues, family updates, and breakups of our 20s. We sat in silence at the weight of it all.

We started feeling the cold of autumn nights, so we headed inside. The cats joined us, coming out from under Sara’s bed and gathering around us in the living room. As Sara went to the kitchen for more snacks, I had a thought and started prepping a delivery order from CVS on my phone.

Sara returned with chips and small bites, and Steven started to shuffle a deck of tarot cards. Over this decade, he had been developing his clairvoyance and wanted to read the tone of the evening. A card jumped out in particular: Page of Cups. Depending on the interpretation, it can mean serendipity and a joyful heart. We all agreed it felt fitting.

Then, my phone vibrated. “One second. I have a delivery,” I told them.

Everyone looked at me with eyebrows raised. “Ariana, when did you have a chance to do that?” they asked.

I ran down the steps and waited for the driver, who handed off the delivery in a paper bag. I ran back up the stairs.

Smirking, I handed Sara the bag. “I thought you could use these.”

She looked at the paper towels and teared up. “I fucking hate you, you beautiful human,” she said, “Thank you.”

If my soul needed anything, then this was it.

Ariana Joharjian is a native New Englander now based in New York City. When not exploring the boroughs, she is most likely to be found at a concert or music festival. Say hello, send your favorite hidden gems of the city, or share your favorite playlist on Instagram at @arianajo_5.