“Welcome to Atlanta”

Stepping off the plane, makeup practically washed away by tears, one terrifying thought kept looping in my head: What if it’s completely different this time?

Just a few short days ago, I boarded a plane to see my CLTC friends, prepared to celebrate my friend Mel’s birthday. The beginning of the school year had been filled with change, and I was grateful to be returning to some sense of normalcy, even if it wasn’t in the hammocks in AZA Village. Much to my dismay, I was arriving in Georgia a day after everybody else. The second the clock hit 3:20, I practically sprinted out of my Psych class, grabbed my phone, and got in the car to get to Westchester Airport. I arrived, got through security, and spent the two and a half hours before my flight doing homework with intermittent Snapchat breaks. Finally, boarding opened and I settled in, ready for the plane to take me far away from the cold, homework-filled days of New York. Suddenly, an announcement came on:

“Hi folks, welcome aboard Delta! We’re so glad to have you with us today on our flight to Atlanta. Unfortunately, we’re running into a minor technical issue, so we’ll be delayed a bit. Thanks so much for your patience, and we hope to get moving soon!”

A "quick wait" turned into two painful hours of staring at my phone, watching Snapchat stories of everyone celebrating Shabbat without me. By the time we finally landed in Atlanta, my phone was dead, I had zero sense of direction, and I was lugging my heavy suitcase through the terminal looking for the airport train. Riding the train felt like it took forever, and my anxiety only grew: What if we’re not as close as I thought? What if our bond was just something forced by spending weeks together at camp? My stomach was in knots, and as I rode the long escalator up, my heart was practically beating out of my chest.

However, these fears dissipated as soon as I stepped into South Baggage Claim, where I was promptly pushed back over the “Do Not Cross” line by the force of three of my best friends rushing to hug me. The sight of their faces expelled any notion that our relationships were anything but what I knew them to be. Entering the house, I was greeted by even more of my favorite smiles, and got the air knocked out of me, partly from the strength behind some hugs, but also from the love that seemed to overtake me.

That was the exact moment I realized how deeply I had missed them. I missed their voices, their  inside jokes, and how easily we could laugh until our stomachs hurt over absolutely nothing. I missed just sitting together in quiet comfort, knowing my favorite people were right beside me.

All weekend long, my friends reminded me why they mean so much to me. The hundreds of miles separating us completely melted away for those three days. I loved every single second; the late-night talks, the constant laughing, and the totally ordinary moments that felt more special just because we were doing them together.

There was a different kind of energy this weekend, though. Back at CLTC, we always knew the summer had an exact end date. I’ve always been hyper-aware when I’m living in a moment I’ll want back later. I felt it during our late-night pile-ups on the floor, during fits of uncontrollable laughter, and during those peaceful, quiet moments where nobody felt the need to break the silence. Even while those moments were happening, I was consciously saving them in my memory.

That same feeling hit me again in Atlanta. Knowing we only had three days didn’t make it feel less real; it made me appreciate every detail. I noticed the way we laughed across the room, the conversations that dragged on for hours, and the effortless comfort of being back together. I knew I’d miss it, I just didn’t realize how fast that feeling would return.

As all good things do, the weekend came to an end. The DC people left first, and then the house slowly became quieter. By the time the New York group had to leave in the afternoon, nobody was ready. We stood outside the car on the porch, crying and hugging each other, trying to stretch the last few minutes into something longer. We knew we had to leave, but none of us seemed willing to be the one who actually made it happen.

When we finally got into the car, our friends literally ran after us.

They ran down the street after the car, waving and crying, refusing to let us leave without one last goodbye. We watched them through the windows as they got smaller and smaller until we finally turned the corner and they disappeared. It was ridiculous and heartbreaking and one of the sweetest things I have ever experienced. They were just as unwilling to let the weekend end as we were.

At the airport, my friend and I sat together crying over a Philly cheesesteak and fries, which is probably not the most dignified way to end a trip, but felt completely appropriate at the time. We weren't crying because we didn't want to go home. We were crying because going home meant leaving them. It meant going from being surrounded by our favorite people to being separated by hundreds of miles again. It meant that only hours after all of us had been together, we would once again be scattered across different states.

And I think that's the part that is hardest to explain. My friends and I tell each other that we love each other all the time. It isn't an occasional “bye, love you” that we say because we're supposed to. I genuinely love these people. I love who they are, I love who I am around them, and I love the bonds we have built with each other. I love them enough that leaving them hurts. I love them enough that I will sit in an airport and cry over a cheesesteak because I know I won't be seeing them tomorrow. I love them enough to fly hundreds of miles just to have three days together.

In a way, that’s what makes the long distance kind of beautiful.

Leaving Georgia didn’t mean losing them, it just meant going back to missing them.

The friendships we built at CLTC were never dependent on living in the same place. They survived busy school schedules, different time zones, and everyday life. The miles are still real, the flights are still tiring, and the goodbyes are still terrible. But now I know that none of that can weaken what we have.

There’s something so special about knowing that hundreds of miles away, there are people who truly get you. People who have seen you at your happiest and your most exhausted, who know your weirdest stories, and who will chase your car down the street because they aren't ready to say goodbye.

I don't have to wait for the future to look back and realize how lucky I was. I know it right now.

I know it whenever my phone lights up with a text from them, when I look at photos from the trip, or when I remember three of my best friends sprinting toward me in baggage claim.

I’m lucky right now.

Lucky to have found people who make me laugh until I can't breathe. Lucky to have friends who make a house in Georgia feel like home, and friends worth flying across state lines for.

Most of all, lucky that I get to love these people so much.

The distance between us is real, but so is the feeling that no matter where we are, these are my people.

I love you guys more than I probably know how to put into words. And if this is what friendship across state lines looks like, I'll take every mile.