But an unblocking all the same.

“She’s my best friend. We grew up together.”

“That must be nice. To have someone here from home. Someone you know so well.” There’s a melancholy note to his voice, and I wonder how much of Reid’s disdain for New York is about this—not having someone from that big, crowded family he misses here with him.

“It has been. But . . . um, she’s moving out soon, into a place with her boyfriend.” I look out toward the park entrance. “To this neighborhood, actually. So I guess I’ll have that living alone experience, at least for a while.”

For a second, all I can think of is the first apartment Sibby had, the one I came to after I left home. It was in Hell’s Kitchen (also an appropriate name for the feeling in my stomach at the time)—one room, longer than it was wide, with Sibby’s compact sofa pushed against the same wall as her twin-size bed. The first few nights, when she could hear me crying, she would only have to reach out from there to grab my hand. In the mornings I’d fold my blankets and we’d sit side by side, eating instant oats Sibby would make in the tiny microwave that sat on top of the mini-fridge. Usually my phone would ring, my mom or dad calling, and Sibby would say, “Want me to answer today?” but she never pressed me, no matter how many times I’d say no.

“You’re not happy about it.” It’s less a question than a statement.

I stop kneading, smooth my palms to a stop on my thighs, pretend to check the chipped, pale-green polish on my nails. “We’ve had some trouble recently. Not a fight or anything, but we’ve grown apart. Or . . . she’s grown apart from me, I guess. I’m not sure she wants to be my friend anymore.”

It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, to anyone. And surprisingly, it’s such a relief. It’s a bit like when I fessed up that I had my period and wanted to stop walking for a while, or like when we walked into this park to sit and my whole body had sagged in anticipation of the comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Reid says, after a few seconds of quiet. “It must be difficult.”

And that—that acknowledgment—has the same effect as that blister pack of pills, helping to chase the ache away.

“Thanks.” I feel an inconvenient pendulum swing back to the crying feeling. I may be relieved to have said it, but I don’t want to go full catharsis out here in the open air, particularly since Reid probably doesn’t carry a vacuum hose and a bag of chocolate in that jacket.

“You’ve never asked her?” Reid says. “Whether she wants to be your friend anymore?”