On growing up and fading dreams - by Lila Shroff

It’s a cool night, after a hot humid New York summer day, and we’re all in the living room. By all, I mean myself, my best friend from high school, and another friend I’ve known my whole life. We all grew up together but the other two were never close, so it’s funny to hear them exchange intimate details of their lives as old friends would. It’s the kind of conversation that can only be made possible by the context of shared childhoods—a conversation now impossible among our new college friends. My best friend lives in this beautiful uptown apartment where the ceilings are high, the cockroaches seldom, and if you stick your head out the rickety fire escape at dusk, the wet grime of the city fades into a soft watercolor painting the color of cherry blossoms. The living room we are in is my favorite room in the apartment: there are recipe clippings for banana bread on the fridge and sunflowers peeking out of green glass bottles on the dining table and a view of the street below decorated

It’s a cool night, after a hot humid New York summer day, and we’re all in the living room. By all, I mean myself, my best friend from high school, and another friend I’ve known my whole life. We all grew up together but the other two were never close, so it’s funny to hear them exchange intimate details of their lives as old friends would. It’s the kind of conversation that can only be made possible by the context of shared childhoods—a conversation now impossible among our new college friends. My best friend lives in this beautiful uptown apartment where the ceilings are high, the cockroache