My original plan was to wait tables at Katie’s Diner again, but that dream died when Katie informed me they’re closing the restaurant permanently. Outdoor dining at half capacity wouldn’t be enough to pay their bills, so they decided to cut their losses and ditch California for someplace cheaper like Reno or Salt Lake City.

“We’ll really miss you, Gabriela,” she said.

“I’ll miss you, too,” I replied.

After we ended our call, I realized that it’s not just people we’ll be mourning after this pandemic but places, too. The staff at Katie’s was a tight-knit family, and we never even got the chance to say goodbye, not to one another and not to our customers. One day we were at work together, and the next day we weren’t. It hurts too much to think about the fact that I’ll never be sitting in a booth again, counting my tips while Andres walks by and shouts random numbers to trip me up. I’ll never make another milkshake or hand out another kid’s menu or squeal with joy after getting a big tip. I’ll never refill Parisa’s coffee for the sixth time in one shift. I knew I’d miss Wes when he left, but nothing compares to how much I miss her.

Friendship purgatory is the worst place in the world. I’ve lived here for a few weeks now, and I’m starting to think that I’ll be here forever. Maybe I’m not in purgatory at all. Maybe I’m just in hell. I’ve left more voice mails, sent more texts, sent multiple apology emails, and even sent a handwritten letter by snail mail, and they’ve all gone unanswered. Parisa won’t talk to me. She wants nothing to do with me. I’ve even enlisted Wes to make appeals on my behalf, but she’s not responding to him either. Parisa always said that if she was religious, if she believed in something, she might not be so afraid to die. And if she wasn’t so afraid to die, she might not be so anxious. Well, now I wish she was religious, too, because then I think God would have taught her to dig deep and forgive.