Meet me in Manhattan

Step 1: Preheat the oven to 350, and try to swallow the regret searing down your throat.

Last suppers were cruel–like funerals you had to cook for. This one especially hurt. With every new relationship—friend, fling, or something deeper—Isabel envisioned what the last meal would taste like. Sometimes, it was chalky, sliding down like a lump in her throat. Other times, a sweet delicacy, masking a bitter aftertaste that lingered long after plates were cleared. Of course, she didn’t entirely hate the act; it had won a Nobel prize, after all, and solved the country’s loneliness crisis. Suicide rates had gone down, while social anxiety diagnoses soared. Isa called trading one evil for the other. The act of leaving never failed to make her stomach churn, which, of course, was the point.

He was the only exception to her imagination, the name Evan etched in fire in her brain. The message was clear—stay away.

How the hell do you lose your best friend since elementary school? The thought made her mind ache, and she was never good with pain. Now, Isa’s avoidance caught up to her, causing her to trip over her words as she fumbled for things to say. Feeling was foreign to her—at least, it should’ve been.

Step 2: Prepare ingredients.

This should’ve been step 1. Classic Evan, always making her lose focus. She closed her eyes, remembering the night under the pillow fort, watching as Last Suppers became nationally mandated. He’d laughed, held her hand. Said it was stupid. That it would never happen to them.

What a lie that’d been.

She jumped as the fork clattered on the floor, the sound a gavel’s crack against wood. Another last supper, another life sentenced to memory.

She resented her own unpreparedness, fearing the cracks in her demeanor would lead to her walls crumbling down. And she couldn’t let that happen. Not in front of him.

Last suppers had only seemed real after the first—her high school carpool buddy. Then, after grad parties and college decisions, it became more, too fast for her to grieve them properly. Her body constantly ached, as if bracing for emotional impact before it even happened. Before she knew it, she was sitting across from the next ending, saying what she’d scripted, adding just the right emotional beats and staccatos. Feeling was exhausting, and vulnerability from her was unprecedented, anyway—she simply opted to wait it out, watching as neither of them touched the cold food sitting in front of them. She’d done this 23 times now, 22 more than she would’ve wanted.

Step 3: Mix flour, salt, eggs, and olive oil to make dough.

Her hands moved automatically—kneaded, folded, and mixed with practiced precision. Ravioli was always his favourite, so much so that she had perfected a separate recipe just for him. Add an extra pinch of salt, easy on the oil. It was instinctual, as easy as walking the 28 seconds down to his apartment was.

This time, Isa was hosting–fitting, since Evan had hosted last Wednesday. And, of course, because she was the one letting go. Same old, same old, she thought, fighting a bitter smile. She handled the pasta sheets with trembling hands, praying the dough wouldn’t fall apart with her.

Step 4: Let the dough rest, mix the filling (do not check your phone for his name).

Isa had set up rules in her life to avoid exactly this. She’d kept eye contact to a minimum. Even in deeper conversation, she kept her distance, always making sure she could still run for shore if things went wrong. Anticipatory grief was something she’d learned to push down before it had the chance to hit—only now, it oozed out of the cracks, like last week’s marshmallow cookies: sickeningly sweet, collapsing under the weight of too much hope. She remembered that Wednesday vividly; it was the day he’d broken the news.

A new offer, he’d said. His pay would double, and all he could leave her with was a half-hearted apology for casting her aside. He’d reassured her, told her, cruelest of all, that the move was a new beginning.

At first, she took it for a joke. Then, she nearly begged to go with him. When he’d shaken his head, eyes showering her with gentle pity, she’d yelled at him to leave without another word.

Step 5: Fill the ravioli, coat lightly with flour, and cut into bite-sized pieces.

Isa’s hand shook as she spooned filling—too much in some, not enough in others. Classic Bells, Evan would’ve joked. But he wasn’t there. She didn’t know if he’d ever be after this last meal.

Oh god. This was the end of them. She froze, ravioli in hand—this was the end of them. She’d bitten off too much of them to swallow, left breathless in his wake. Something in her cracked open—hot, sharp, necessary. The anger was almost clarifying; somewhere in the mess, she knew she couldn’t blame him. Town had left them with some deep cuts, the kind that bleed upon breath and never quite stop. After 24 years in this hell, she was about ready to leave town, too. Only, she built too much in Brooklyn to leave on the next train to the airport. If anything, she’d stay for his brother—he needed Evan more than anything, and, well, she was the next best thing.

Step 6: Boil the ravioli, and try not to get burned in the process.

She’d failed at the second half already, pulling her arm back right as the water hit. She ran it down cool water and prayed that’d be the most she’d feel that night. Her gaze flitted from the angry red of her skin to the near-done ravioli—lopsided and unequal, in a way that reminded her achingly of his smile. She fished them out with a spoon, plating with a creamy Alfredo finish—his favourite, of course. She added one final touch: fresh cilantro on the highest piece, the cherry on top of their undoing. Before she could bring herself to walk away, she took two for a Ziploc bag. Maybe now, she could make more the same way, until the end of her. And maybe, one day, the mush of cheese and Alfredo wouldn’t taste so much like them. She sealed the bag with a sigh, knowing she’d never be able to replicate the love she’d made them with. The clock ticked. 5:57. Three minutes ‘til the curtain closed.

Despite all her past preparation, she didn’t think she was strong enough to take the emotional hit. She had never found comfort in familiarity, always seeking out the unknown, running to the next shiny thing. Yet, he was like a wall she couldn’t get through or around, no matter how hard she’d tried. Every time she tried, he’d show up at her door with two spoons, one excuse, and the same damn smile. It was always that–after every disagreement, after every period away, they’d never talk, just sit in silence, eating butter pecan swirl until their teeth hurt.

Frustrated, Isa glanced around her living room—bare bones, other than a single poster—their favourite watch, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The poster taunted her: “Meet me in Montauk.” God, she envied Clementine and Joel. At least they had the option.

She reached for the pamphlet on her coffee table, “Proper Goodbye Etiquette.” She’d dog-eared page 12: “How to Say Goodbye Without Crying,” trying to perfect her craft. Only, she failed at the mere thought of him leaving.

The door creaked—no knock, because he’d never needed one.

“Isa,” he greeted, voice hoarse from the cold. Without waiting for a response, he went in for a hug. She tensed up, not hugging him back. His arms drop like she’s burned them. A flinch—quick, then gone, masked in the classic Evan way. They were like the two throwouts in a batch, burnt on the edge in ways that only complemented each other. Evan’s quick deflection fit her calculated avoidance in a way he’d compared far too often to pieces of cake—too crumbly to hold on its own, always leaning on the other.

“C’mon, Bells,” he coaxed, walking past her and crashing on his couch.

“Isabel.” She corrected, but she couldn’t help but lie next to him. Her lips twitched—habit, not happiness.

“This doesn’t have to be a goodbye, Bells. Since when do we follow rules, anyway?” He leaned into her subtly. This time, she didn’t shy away from the touch.

“You’re moving halfway across the country, Evan. I can’t keep clinging to you the way I do when you’re here. So this is a goodbye.”

He stepped closer to her, hands up in response to her anger. “This isn’t how I wanted to talk—fuck—Isa, look at me. I texted you so many times, I lost count. We can FaceTime every Wednesday and have bake-offs. And—”

“Stop,” her voice cracks. “Evs, you’re killing me.”

He lit up with another idea, but stopped when he saw the salt in her eyes.

“Been a while since you called me that,” he said gently, and she turned away, burying her head in her hands.

“I still remember,” She tried not to let her sobs choke through, not sure if it worked. Her voice cracked—too late to take it back now.

The nickname had slipped out into trembling hands—hers holding his, telling him his brother was going to be okay. He stopped crying when she’d called him that, but they’d skirted around the name ever since. She was Isa, or Bells, or Bella, and he was just—Evan. Still, they let it stay that way. Evan always let the spotlight fall somewhere else.

“Yeah? All those years ago?” He said, his fingers twitched, brushing the space between them.

“Yeah. Your brother doing okay?” She looked up, having blinked away her tears. He softens immediately at the mention, giving her a look. “You ask me that every time we have our Wednesdays, and every time, I tell you the same thing.”

She grinned, her hand instinctively slipping into his. One last time, she tells herself. One last time. Maybe it’d hurt less, now that she could stop pretending she didn’t want to fall into him. Or maybe it’d hurt more, knowing this was the last time she’d ever want to.

“So?” She asked, ignoring the way he tensed upon the touch. “I’m forgetful. Tell me again.” She batted her eyes like she was still 14 and trying to win him over. It was only through luck that she’d escaped that phase relatively unscathed. Just best friends, she’d gotten used to telling everyone, over and over again.

He laughed, trying to hide the hurt still lingering behind his eyes from that night in the ICU, where they watched him get his stomach pumped from between their fingers. “He’s clean, Bells. Been since the accident. You know the deal—therapy, hitting the gym, the whole nine.”

She nodded, suddenly not able to meet his eyes. “What about you? Doing..okay?” She finally asked. He glanced at her, a little too fast, before looking back down. His fingers went slack, his expression unchanged, save for the tension in his jaw. “Fine. Except—this.” He met her eyes, hope flickering at the edges of his expression.

“Hey,” she said, tilting his head up, as if silently pleading, look at me. “Honest.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“I know, Evs. I don’t want you to, either.” That was the worst part—want had nothing to do with goodbye. The acknowledgement catapulted her past denial and straight into acceptance—and it felt like crashing into the East River in winter, when it’s half ice and half memory. She hadn’t learned how to brace for this kind of emotional hell.

She could still remember his brother’s fingers turning blue in the ICU—how Evan had clutched her hand so tight she bled, holding hers and his in two hands, as if his tiny grip could bring back a life so big. Now, his grip is loose. Progress? Or just practice at letting go?

She wished she held him tighter. Wished she hadn’t let him slip from her grasp.

He squeezed her hand three times—they never discussed what it meant, but they both knew it anyway. “So. About the food,” he said, quick to switch tracks. Classic Evan.

He holds up the plate—Alfredo pasta, just shy of al dente, the way she likes it, with a side of steak. Her favourite. His smile was brittle. She nodded to the kitchen table, already set up. “Want to start?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them made a move. Tension turned comfortable silence into a weight, pressing them into each other like it was where they were meant to stay. But she’d let go of that dream the moment he broke the news.

The sofa squeaked as she stood. Five steps. That was the bridge between them and the end.

His hand twitched—a silent “Isa”—before he stood, too, always content to follow her lead.

The pasta cooled between them. His knee bounced under the table, so quickly it made the plates shake. Evan stabbed a ravioli—once, twice—then blurted, “About Levi—”

She looked up patiently, grief having dulled to numb acceptance. This was the familiarity she understood.

“Can you—just while I’m gone—” She nodded before he even finished. “Of course. In no world would I have said no, Evs.”

He nodded, opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“There’s no movie scene to talk over this time,” he mumbled. She nodded—he finally addressed what they’d left unsaid.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She offered. He wasn’t one to talk, preferring to wade in his feelings beside her. Isa had seen it—gelato spoon in hand, eyes glistening, still locked on the screen.

He looked up in shocked silence. Then—a laugh.

A laugh. They were ending and he was laughing.

“Sorry. I’m—I’m so sorry, Isa. I look around—at the ravioli, at the poster of Clem and Joel—and I think this isn’t even real. I—”

His phone buzzed loudly, Levi’s contact flashing on the screen. Isa grimaced, recognizing all too well the eyes that had remained hollow since the discharge. Hesitant, Evan declined the call.

Some things couldn’t be saved.

“I took the offer before telling you. Because I knew you’d say no, and you’d beg me to stay. And, for some damn reason, I’m not strong enough to refuse those eyes. I—I don’t think I’m strong enough for the move, either.” His voice broke. A tear hit the plate, mixing into the Alfredo sauce, already pooled and cooling around the ravioli. Evan swore, wiping it furiously. “Look what you made me do,” he laughed, the sound one beat away from a sob.

“Evan,” she started, gripping his hand from under the table. She squeezed three times, expression only softening when she heard his voice hitch. “You wanted to do this to prove you could. All by yourself. But I wish you could’ve done something else, something that wouldn’t have cost your life in the process.” She smiled, but it was hollow, fraying at the edges, mirroring the dough. “This isn’t scripted like the goodbyes you hear about.”

He nodded, squeezing back. “I gave up on everything without a thought, because I never gave myself the space. To think. To not look down on it. But I hope…if I ask you to meet me in Central, you’d still come.”

“Bike all the way to Manhattan just to people watch?” She asked skeptically, grinning as he recoils. “I’m kidding. It’s not that far from Brooklyn.”

The finality of it all cut her like a dull blade—bruised beneath the surface, bleeding just enough to ache. Just another injury from a place sutures couldn’t hold together.

“We were supposed to lease an apartment together, Ev. We were supposed to build a life.” She smiled through the tears. Ev. Evs. Each nickname a hooked finger in his chest. Stay. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew they were just two people orbiting around a goodbye and pretending they weren’t. They weren’t 11 anymore. There were no more pillow-fort promises to lean on.

He laughed. “Oh, Isa? I know how you felt. Since this is goodbye..” his voice trailed off. Her fork clattered once again—a jarring sound against the silence. “We could’ve been part-time lovers and full-time friends, Isabel. We could’ve been—so much.”

The steam rose, cooling fast. She didn’t blow on it. Maybe, if she’d just let go, it wouldn’t have burned so harshly. She looked up at him and tilted her head—I know. Silence had always been their language. Maybe it was time she forgot how to read it.

“Guess some recipes don’t work.” Isa’s own words, thrown back at her.

She didn’t take a bite.

His plate remained untouched. The messily-made ravioli stared at him like some sick joke.

They hadn’t gone to plan.

Maybe that was okay.

Maybe some things were better remembered than relived.