“Five more minutes…,” Julia teases me from the passenger seat as Elena exits the freeway.

Even though their business is finally picking up and they have their first catered event tomorrow, my moms insisted on coming along to witness our reunion—which is really more like a goodbye because Parisa leaves for Harvard in a couple of days. The timing was either fated by the friendship gods or it was just a happy coincidence, but either way, we were able to get our vaccines with just enough time to be fully protected before she left the state. In ten days, once Wes’s fully inoculated, he’s flying out to the Bay Area on his own so we can spend some time together before he starts school at NYU. I didn’t cry when he finally told me he’d decided to stay on the East Coast. Fewer memories of his mom, he explained. Fewer reminders of a horrifically painful time in his life. But what about the memories of us? Love, as it turns out, cannot squander grief.

Neither of us has explicitly said that having an entire country between us means that we should break up. In some strange way, our entire relationship has felt like it was long distance, but I think we know that it was exactly what we needed at the time. And now the times are starting to shift back to some version of normal. His trip to California isn’t so much a romantic escapade than it is a last hurrah. I still haven’t told him about Mexico because I don’t want my decision to move to take the blame for the breakup. Maybe it’s selfish, but that’s one burden I’d like him to carry. To my surprise and utter relief, Parisa completely approved of my plans to leave the country.

“It’s going to change your life,” she declared. “Way more than college would.”

Part of me wanted her to feel inspired enough to come with me, but I know we have different dreams. We always have. As Elena turns the car onto Parisa’s street, I notice it looks almost exactly the same. It’s like no time has passed since I was last here. The pale yellow house on the corner has had a glow up with its new shade of midnight-blue paint, the English Tudor has a FOR SALE sign in front of it, and almost every house has a WEAR A MASK lawn sign, but the rest of the neighborhood feels like it’s been preserved in a bell jar.

“This feels so weird,” I say aloud.

Somehow, having been cooped up in our apartment makes the houses on Parisa’s street appear even more massive than I remember. Maybe even a little grotesque if I’m being honest.