I begin with the Flatiron Building. I know the history of the wedge-shaped structure. I can summon a perfect image of it in my mind’s eye. The limestone changing to terra-cotta as the building rises. The rounded corner at the peak of the triangle. It’s a perfect medley of styles from antiquity to the Renaissance Revival.

In person, it’s more than that.

The point of the building rises between the streets like the prow of a ship cutting through the sea, the entire city expanding behind its hull. Taxis glide along its smooth sides like waves. In a city of colossal skyscrapers and more than eight million people, the Flatiron still manages to command attention.

I stand on the sidewalk for several minutes, admiring the shadows cast by the skyline against its windowed walls. No wonder the surrounding neighborhood took the building’s name. The Flatiron District—a place of people and businesses defined by a single structure. Not everyone understands the influence of architecture. But here, under this twenty-two-story sentinel, it’s undeniable.

I soak up the view until the alarm I programmed into my phone to keep me on my itinerary rings in my hand. It’s not a long walk to my next stop—the Empire State Building.

I’m reaching the skyscraper when my phone vibrates once more. It’s not my alarm this time, though. It’s Fitz.

 Is New York everything you remembered?

I stare at his name on the phone, at the trail of our previous messages leading down the screen. Talking with him was effortless yesterday. I have a feeling I could fall back into those conversations today without thinking. I could let Fitz into my heartache. He’d probably have the perfect word to describe it. He’d hand me some centuries-old adjective that wraps up the cyclone of emotions in my heart in a way that makes them understandable and easier to bear.

It’s unusual, his thing with words, but not in a bad way. Knowing the repertoire he has at his disposal gives everything he says to me a deliberateness it’s difficult to find in casual conversation. He speaks to me like he’s reading dialogue from a novel, each word chosen with care and precision. The effect is . . . disarming.

We’re in the same city today. I could find him, laugh at his jokes—be disarmed. He’d make me feel better. Less alone.

But I want to feel alone right now. To stand with nothing but my dreams at my side, in the shadows of buildings that have towered over people just like me and people completely unlike me. The Empire State Building reaches higher than everything around it, but it doesn’t appear lonely.

I reply, knowing he’ll pick up on my terseness and not minding.

 Yeah. It is. Full schedule today.

Being alone and without Matt—or Fitz—I feel more keenly the non-interruption of my family. Normally, they’d be bombarding my phone with texts. I know Tía’s resentful I hung up on her. My dad’s working today. My mom’s probably still dealing with the fallout from Marisa’s night out. The quiet is weird, and I have to admit, a little unpleasant. Not that I don’t appreciate the peace. I’m just unexpectedly aware of it.

I’m particularly aware I haven’t talked to Marisa in days. Impulsively, I take a picture of the Empire State Building, even though I can’t fit the entire structure in the frame, and pull a moment from my head into a message.

 Remember when Mom took us here when you were three? You were NOT into it.

I don’t get a response.

I continue on from the Empire State Building, covering this city properly explored on foot. Every crossing, every hot-dog cart, every flock of pigeons pecking crumbs from sidewalk corners resonates with what I remember from when I was younger. The energy of the city is unforgettable, not only in my recollections, but in the instinctual rhythm I feel walking the curbs and corners among inescapable crowds.

Rockefeller Center is next on my itinerary. Couples and children crowd the ice rink in front of the iconic Prometheus sculpture. The enormous Christmas tree points toward the sky, looming over the pedestrians like an emperor over his subjects, bedecked in fineries of multicolored lights and a massive shining star.

On the road, it’s easy to forget Christmas is only a week and a half away. In my house, the days before Christmas come with constant competing family obligations and traditions. While I’m sad not to be home for Callie’s cookie-decorating party, I don’t regret skipping some of the chaos of the holiday. I’ll have nearly a week once I return to host cousins and aunts and uncles, to help Tía dig out Christmas dinner recipes, to be a Ramírez for a holiday synonymous in our house with family.

Right now, I’m on my own, exploring my old city with new eyes. It’s been ten years since we moved to Springfield, and I’ll be back there before long. I circumvent the rink and head to the foot of the Rockefeller, where I gaze upward, examining the façade’s perfect intricacy.

I snap a selfie with Prometheus in the background and send it to Marisa.

 Your first crush.

He really was. It was honestly adorable when she announced he was her husband. She was six.

I’m undeterred when there’s no reply. I decide I’ll text her with every new building until I wear her down.

I pause in front of the ice rink. I swear I fall in love with art deco every time I see design like this. It’s the very idea of the style, the philosophy—art deco is devoted to progress, to relentlessly emulating every future its creators could envision. To imagining tomorrow into today.

Fitz continues texting me. The boy is sensitive, I’ll give him that. He gives me time in between replies, he jokes gently and not often, and he asks me what I’m doing without pressing me for details on the rest of my itinerary this week. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, which I appreciate indescribably. He’s definitely intelligent enough to know I’m not acting totally normal, yet he apparently understands that getting me to divulge the details will do more harm than good. I feel myself opening up during these off-and-on conversations, describing my day and hearing what he’s doing with his.

I visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral, its skeletal stone in imposing defiance of the silver and steel surrounding it, where I send Marisa a reminder of the day she threw a tantrum because Dad wouldn’t let her bring ice cream into the church. When my stomach growls, I grab a quick lunch from a nearby deli. Finally, I head to the Guggenheim.

It’s a long walk, and I’ve unzipped my parka and taken off my scarf by the time I reach the museum. At first, I can’t tell if I like Frank Lloyd Wright’s pairing of unconventional spirals and sharp angles, but the more I walk around the building, the more I appreciate it. Wright was a master of architecture emerging organically and harmoniously from its surroundings. The Guggenheim is a perfect example. The concrete walls flow up from the sidewalk into shapes reminiscent of the modern art the museum was designed to house.