I spent the past day and a half watching the entire first season of Felicity – the DVD cover jumped out at me in my Netflix homepage. It was late Friday night and I recalled faint vignettes of the show. Something told me I should watch it – and I did. Memories of when I was 18, 19, came back to me – I really connected to the show’s protagonist, Felicity. She defied her parents and instead of going to Stanford, she followed a boy she liked to New York. I remembered at that time feeling the pangs of envy – how I wished I could switch places with her. How exciting it must be to travel thousands of miles away from your home and create adventures for yourself. I think I already had those pangs – for years, all I could think of was leaving to see the world, go beyond my comfort zone – because I was sure there was some place to which I belonged. The show merely was a catalyst that made the hole in my life seem bigger.

As I watched the characters talk about their new lives in New York – with the city figuring prominently almost like a character – I look out my window at the fog-capped view, and I smiled a wide, satisfied grin. I finally had my New York – I had a place where I belonged and love dearly.