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This is a sad story, and it might leave a hole in my heart forever. I’ll call her A. We had been working at the same company headquarters in China for five years. However, we never got to know each other and were both transferred to New York City. During the first five months I worked here, we were nothing but coworkers.

The subtle change in our relationship originated from a lunch. It was a hectic day for me, and I was too busy to order my lunch. Somehow, A saw it and ordered one without telling me, put it on my desk, and said, “Haven’t you eaten yet? Don’t forget to eat.” This action may seem like nothing special to other people, but for me, alone in a foreign country, I never expected someone would notice me. Friends are those willing to help in your hour of need, so right after she finished speaking, I made up my mind. No matter what she thought, she was my friend. Plus, I’m the kind of person unwilling to owe someone a favor, so I took the chance to buy a cake for her in return the next day.

Just like that, our friendship began, and I gradually got to know her. It was during that period of time that she told me her life motto: “It’s none of your business, and it’s none of my business.” No wonder some people called her Ms. Mystery Lady. Knowing her better sometimes offered me an illusion of superiority. We talked about travels, museums, music, movies, TV shows, and delicacies. It turned out we had a lot in common. We reminisced about our school days, parents, and lives in Shanghai. She was also willing to tell me stories that delighted her, although sometimes she was vague. I could sense there was something she carefully avoided mentioning. I had no interest in prying into other people’s secrets. She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. My only expectation was to see the smile on her face when we both were on site each week.

One afternoon, a notification popped up on my phone. It described a shooting that had happened around my company’s building the day before. As I clicked it and skimmed through the narrative, my heart suddenly froze when I saw the name on the screen. I stopped myself from thinking deeply about it and quickly called her, hoping it wouldn’t be true. But no one picked up.

The NYPD released its final statement shortly after. It was a murder, and she was dead on the scene. My new world collapsed. I couldn’t help but weep every time I thought about her. I had promised to draw a portrait of her before she went back to her hometown. I had promised to combine the footage of the view outside my window into a film and send it to her. I had promised to make a special cocktail for her. I had even chosen a special Christmas gift for her in advance. All in vain.

In my life, I could never have foreseen such a thing happening just around the corner. The hole in my heart burns. I once loved the song “Concrete Jungle.” It inspired me to come to New York and chase my dream, but my dream feels empty now. I can’t imagine facing her empty seat at work. I miss her “Good morning” and “Good night.” I miss the moments when we texted each other. I miss her voice and smile. Amy. My elegant, tall lady with long, straight hair. You were capable, independent, and trustworthy. I would recognize you at first glance in any crowd.

All I hope is that her last moments didn’t hurt. I’ve sent my last farewell text to her; hopefully, she can see it somewhere in heaven.

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Feng Chen was born in Xi’an, China, and, after 22 years in Xi’an and seven years in Shanghai, he came to NYC in November 2019. The loss of his friend Amy changed his belief to “Cherish each beautiful ephemeral moment while keeping moving forward.” He is grateful to Elke Stappert, his teacher at New York Public Library’s Harlem branch, for her dedication to his writing