Joy Lee,

Baltimore, Maryland

I used to think New York would be the place for me, but nowadays, I’m not so sure.

A coach bus drops me off on 34th Street late Friday night, and I look down at the slides I accidentally wore for the weekend. A new friend I made on the bus walks with me most of the way to my destination before splitting off at K-Town, where I eventually find myself in front of a line of bars. It’s lively tonight, and the well-dressed group of millennials walking inside a spot for drinks barely spares me a glance as I approach the door next to them. I’m not dressed for the bar, but I don’t think that’ll be an issue for where I’m headed. Emma, a friend who shares a piece of my soul, is opening the door for me before I get a chance to register that I’m actually here. She’s wearing her pajamas, and we jump in circles as she pulls me into her arms. She asks me the questions I want to answer, and I laugh at jokes I didn’t realize I’d been waiting to hear. We hug and chat and laugh, and she tells me when we wake up the next morning that she fell asleep with a smile on her face. As I dozed off to the muffled sounds of the city, I’d like to think that I did too.

I am walking the streets in sneakers that belong to Emma’s generous roommate, Hannah. I ignore the space between the ends of my toes and the fronts of Hannah’s Pumas— I am grateful to wear them. It’s loud, and there are so many pretty girls dressed to the nines. I know I can’t pull off a bodycon dress with as much confidence. It’s obnoxious, and there are so many freelancers here pursuing their dreams. I’ll never be able to pursue creative work with as much determination.

Everyone, and everything, is too much for me.

I wait outside for my friend Sam in front of a cafe that he says belongs to a famous pastry chef. A lot of my friends here know who Dominique Ansel is, but I don’t have a clue. He owns a couple of popular bakeries in New York, and this newest endeavor, I’m told, is the talk of the town.

Sam is a friend I am wholeheartedly willing to admit I look up to. He is successful, incredibly smart, and kind. He loves New York, and you can see it. After much deliberation, Sam and I get a cute cake that’s shaped like a jar that has some sort of molten center that surprises us with its bright color. The outside is white and soft; the inside smooth and flavorful in a way that makes my eyes go wide. I don’t have much to say when I post about it on the food app all my friends love though— it was nice.

Sam brings up Eat, Pray, Love, and we laugh at how outdated it is. We love Julia Roberts, but neither of us can relate to who she plays: a white girl that everyone wants to help and no one seems to hate. I sigh out of envy. Why can’t I live in Italy and do nothing but eat? I ask Sam how work’s been, and he says, “Work is just what it is, work.” I don’t know why I expect him to say that he loves his big tech job. Did I want him to say that it’s great, and that his life is perfect? I think I want more assurance that going up the corporate ladder is worth it. That being good enough at your job will make you like it.

Sam and Emma love New York, and you can see it. They love morning runs, going out at night, and taking the subway in between. They enjoy meeting new people and finding new sights to see. New York reflects their never-ending wonder, and as I walk over to a restaurant for lunch, I ask myself if it could do the same for me.

I open the door for someone on the street. I laugh about Love Island, and I eat till I think I’ll die for real this time. I see excitement through the eyes of girls I’ve never met before, and a love for life that I wonder if I have anymore. Stop being dramatic, I think to myself.

I do.

I am indifferent about many things. Where I care to eat, where I go, and why I do it. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I am content with whoever decides to take on aux. I enjoy being a follower, because how else will I try everything once? To me, company matters just as much, if not more, than the experience. Maybe it’s the result of growing up defining myself by other people’s standards, or the result of worshipping people I trust. It couldn’t be because I simply like most things, so I choose to focus on what could be wrong with me instead.

I walk around New York with no destination in mind other than a need to find going-out shoes so I don’t ruin Hannah’s shoes at the bar. Pedestrians, young and old, pass me with purpose as I watch them with none of my own. It’s hot, and I’m tired. Is this worth it? Would it be that bad if I wore my Croc slides? I text Emma a convenient meeting spot, and when I see her, I remind myself that yes, it would be that bad.

When I told my seatmate on the bus about myself, I caught myself repeating phrases like “I’m not sure,” “Maybe someday,” and “We’ll see what happens." He encouraged me to pursue more out of life, and that annoyed me. It frustrated me that I conveyed myself in a way that made me appear uncertain and weak.

There are many parts of me that I feel the need to justify. Why do I spend so much time with other people, for instance, and why am I such a stickler for rules? Why do I have so many piercings, and why do I pick at my thumbs? Why was I bullied as a kid, and why is my eyesight so bad? If no one knows why I think the way I do or why I do the things I do, then how else will I be able to articulate why I thought the way I did, or why I did the things I chose to do?

More often than we realize, I notice that what we think is different from what we know. I know that New York is beautiful, and that I would have every right to be there if I went. I know there is so much I have yet to see in this world, and that New York is a great representation of what I have yet to understand. I know I love learning about other people’s aspirations alongside my own. I know I love surrounding myself with people because I love people. Still, I continue to ponder and dissect until the things I know turn into the things I think, because I am scared to act on what I know, and because that’s the kind of person I think that I am.

We are going out, and I’m wearing my newly purchased flats. They are a deep red, and I am in love with them. We can’t seem to find a good place to dance, and I think that I care, but I realize that I don’t. I am walking around the city with other pretty girls who are dressed to enjoy their night, regardless of where they end up. They are friendly and kind, and I feel lucky to tag along. I know I am having a good time because I know Emma will dance with me. I know I am having fun because these girls will laugh with me.

We finally find a place with good music at one am, and my head is full of thoughts that I decide I don’t care about. All I know is that I am dancing in slow-motion with my eyes closed as lights pulse in and out around me, and through me: red, then purple, then pink, then blue. All I know is that Emma is holding my hand, and lights flash as someone snaps a photo. All I know is that when we get back home and get ready for bed, I am falling asleep with a smile on my face.

I am hugging my friends goodbye, and I am walking away. Sam, Jane, Hannah, and Emma. I’m wondering why a bracelet at the thrift store costs sixty dollars as I check my phone for the 500th time to ensure that the bus I’m waiting for won’t take me to Long Island by mistake. My heartbeat races as I ask someone in line for validation, and New York City is fading away. The romanticism of it all makes me imagine that I am disappearing along with it.

No matter what I write, I feel performative and odd. I feel as though I continue to justify what I am doing and what I am thinking because I fear how you may perceive my writing otherwise. Do you think I am insecure? I don’t want to know. But at the same time, maybe I do. Maybe, deep down, I want to draw that conclusion out of you, just so I can shove it back in your face by restating how strong and resilient I am. I don’t want to come across as a vulnerable girl who struggles, but I do, and I know that is okay, but really, I don’t think it is. That’s silly, though.

I do.