Flat land, dull earth, an open empty sky—our layover home dumped us in Denver. It sat in stark contrast to the dense urban sprawl of New York, but disregarding the arid plains that stretched outside the airport windows as far as the eye could see, it had one charm: The Centurion Lounge. My other half and I spend the next two hours eating our fill of complimentary dinner and being told to remove our feet from the upholstery. I was picking at a plate of pesto chicken and buttered cornbread when my mind wandered back to the hazy New York City skyline. Only twice in my life had I had the privilege to step in puddles of unknown liquids in subway tunnels and share a breath with a heap of warm trash on the sidewalk, but even the drawbacks of urban living were not enough to deter my ambition. The thought that pestered my mind once a month pestered me once again: what if I moved to New York City?

The desire to up and leave had always stirred in me, culminating in a fervid excitement at any mention of the City. I knew I was not unique for this longing and, if anything, that encouraged me. I was undoubtedly convinced and had been for years.

“Would you ever want to live in New York?” I asked Justin.

He paused his meal, taking time to chew, but I already knew his answer. I had asked him this question before. And I would ask him again and again, hoping for some impossible change of heart that aligned with my fantasy.

He swallowed. “I hate New York City.”

Our conversation continued, looping around and pressing every soft spot we had for each other. In the end, my fervor had been lessened, a hand placed on my bouncing knee, and I resolved to stick to my commitments: I would not move to New York City. I likely never would.

This was not my first experience that culminated in the common impulsive desire to move to the most populous city in America—I was the fantastical age of seventeen the very first time I stepped foot in New York. There was something intoxicating about being on the cusp of adulthood, wandering a place I’d only seen in media with people I’d known the better half of my life (and anticipated a grand goodbye with in the coming weeks). Manhattan was the playground of thirty-seven high school seniors for eight unsupervised days; the 50th Street Station our doorway to the previously unknown. We went everywhere our California footwear could take us: the cobbled streets of Soho during March rain, through a maze of gritty subway tunnels in Brooklyn, rode empty morning trains for PopUp Bagels in Chelsea, experienced the solemn serenity of the 9/11 Memorial Museum, climbed the wet mossy steps of the Belvedere Castle in Central Park on our way to The MET. When all was said and done, the airport shuttle rolled up to our hotel on 8th Avenue and I wished I’d seen the lights of Times Square just one more time.

For eight days and seven nights, Manhattan was mine: from the South Ferry Terminal to the New York Public Library to Morningside Park. I had never been so far from everything I had ever known, but my heart bore no hole. There was no desire in my bones to return to sunny Southern California, no matter how ideal the weather or how full of my family. I had seen something I could never forget. I had found something I never knew I was looking for. I had heard the sounds of the city; I could not leave unknowing if I would ever rejoin its symphony.

I worked through my post-trip blues by dreaming of a potential other life in the faraway place that was New York City. For two years I harbored my fantasies, keeping them at bay by downplaying their reality. I didn’t let myself think about the what ifs until I, at nineteen, found myself with the world yet again at my fingertips. The impromptu seven-hour day trip I spent in reverie was a poignant reminder that I had never changed. I likely never will.

I have come to think of New York City quite frequently now. There is an urge that stirs within me upon its mention—any walkable city, really—and I grow restless. I itch to step outside my door onto a bustling tree-lined sidewalk. I want nothing more than to walk a few blocks and descend into a subway tunnel. I would give everything to abandon my four-freeway commute home from Fullerton. I have an idealized version of who I could be if I just made the move, and the unbearable weight of expecting its arrival makes me rash.

I pester Justin with questions. Why doesn’t he like New York? Would he ever want to live in an outer borough? Long Island? Why does he hate walkable cities? Would he ever change his mind? He gives me the same response, over and over again—no. I have yet to accept it.

“And what if I go?” I ask, playing the devil’s advocate. “What if I move to New York City after college?”

“You could,” he says, “but I won’t go with you. You’d have to choose.”

“I don’t want to choose.”

“I don’t want to hold you back. I don’t want to be boring.”

“Would you wait for me?”

“You’d never want to leave.”

We’ve been through almost three years of long distance. There is a promise between us that, one day, the distance will close. Could I go back on my word?

I weigh my options, examining them under the careful eyes of my trusted confidants. My friends tell me to chase my dreams; they also tell me to not let go of the love people spend a lifetime looking for. My mother seeks a compromise, telling me to take a gap year. We could leave our separate colleges and go our separate ways under the pretense that in just one more year we would reunite. But Justin is right—if I left, there is no guarantee I would ever come back.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

There are more conversations we have. I talk just to talk. I’m frenzied. He remarks I’m obsessed and I deny it, even though he knows me better than I do. I plunge myself in a sickness, crushed under the romanticized idea of a potential life: an idealized urban version of myself who has everything I could ever want

Justin is patient with me. He lets me outline all the sacrifices I am set out to make should I follow him where he goes for dental school. He lets me list the career benefits of moving to New York City. He lets my imagination run wild until I run out of corners of my fantasy to explore, and I am dragged back down to reality: there is no guarantee I would get anything I wanted. I’m chasing a ghost. Everything that made my fantasy so desirable is a gamble. If I left, I would be leaving the things that mattered most to me: things I had already fought so hard to find and keep.

I am reminded of an excerpt from an article by Kendall Miller:

“I am fighting this expectation in myself constantly, the expectation that there is a more realized version of myself a few paces ahead that can finally exhale and enjoy the space she takes up. She, of course, is never really coming, on this doorstep or the next, and waiting for her leaves very little room for gratitude.”

My mother reminds me of something I have forgotten—I have never known where I am going. She, like Justin, is right. I often find myself at my destination, the journey a blur, with my heart full. I hold no regrets; only gratitude. I could leave and find everything; I could leave and find nothing. Either way, I would have to let go of people I cannot live without. Do I want to trade one love for another? Security and comfort for a fleeting few years? I don’t think I do. I might never watch the seasons change from a fire escape in New York City, but I will find fulfillment. That I know, and it is more than enough for me to enjoy the Manhattan skyline from afar.