It is mid-April, and somehow, I have found myself in need of a dress.

I take the bus from my school to the train station, and from there, a train to Grand Central. I don’t have a concrete plan, just a feeling that somehow everything will work out and I’ll find what I am looking for. But as I sit on the train, wondering where to go first, the worst thing possible happens.

My earbuds die. 

The song playing in my ears, “Afterthought” by The Band CAMINO, ends abruptly, and I strongly consider taking the train right back to school. I don’t, of course; that would be a waste of the money I’d spent to get here. Instead, when I arrive at Grand Central, I walk off the train as quickly as possible, hoping to speed through my shopping day.

Without music blasting in my ears, I am forced to sit with–or walk with–my thoughts for the afternoon. If nothing else, it gives me the chance to think about exactly what I’m looking for. A pink dress. Light pink, or maybe a bourbon? Something simple, but cute, that will match my hair. 

It turns out pink dresses are very hard to find. Time flies by, and I’m so focused on my search that the lack of music becomes an afterthought. After hours of scavenging thrift stores and boutiques, I have resigned myself to the fact that I’ll be returning empty-handed. It’s almost four o’clock, and I’m about ready to call it a day, when I see it.

At the corner of 35th and 6th is what’s known as The Great American Department Store, but I don’t know that yet. To me, it’s just a tall brown building. As I stand at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green, the big red letters of the Macy’s sign stick out like a sore thumb. I look around. Grand Central is about 20 minutes away. A little detour won’t hurt. A harmless side quest to end the day. 

How wrong I am. 

Getting inside is easy. I weave through the loiterers and selfie-takers, through the front doors, and I’m instantly blinded by the fluorescent lights overhead. My eyes take a second to adjust, and I’m pushed into the crowd. Fifty or so people cluster around me. Many have stopped to take pictures of the giant flower décoré, and I have to duck to keep my face out of frame. I maneuver my way through the onlookers, scanning every display in sight. Pink dress. Pink dress. That’s all I want. 

The floors are so clean, so white, so shiny, they appear wet. I’m momentarily distracted by the fact that I can see traces of my reflection at my feet, then I notice that there are no dresses on this floor: just perfume and makeup, but I’m not disappointed. I spend some time looking at the eyeliner, the nail polish, the mascara, and I think about my own style. It’s something I’ve spent the past year developing, and it’s such a fun part of my day. Waking up and deciding what to wear, and how to do my makeup. I realize so many of my friends have inspired the way I dress, and in a way, my appearance is a reflection of the people I love, or have loved. I also realize I’ve gotten a bit distracted from my goal.

I walk through aisle after aisle until I come across an escalator offering to take me further. Like Orpheus descending into the underworld, I step on, not knowing what awaits me. As I ride the escalator up to the second floor, I decide I’ll check out the third floor as well, and once I’ve reached the top floor, I’ll head back down and get to the train station, dress or no dress. Besides, there’s no way there are more than three or four floors, right?

The second floor is filled with shoes. So, so many shoes. I spend ten or so minutes exploring before moving on to the third. It only takes one price tag (in the triple digits) on a pretty pair of heels to tell me that even if I do spot something I like, it’s probably best if I don’t buy it.

Everywhere I look, there are mannequins: standing, sitting, watching me with empty faces and skin that glows under the fluorescent light. They all don the latest fashion: pastel tops, shell jackets, denim jeans, and high-heeled shoes. I gravitate toward one of them, wearing a hideously bright orange shirt, and subconsciously, I reach for my phone. I know someone who would love this shirt, and if we were still on speaking terms, I’d send her a picture. But I don’t. From here, I begin to walk a little faster, taking in the many pieces of clothing and sparkling accessories. Suits, coats, dresses (none pink–at least, not the right shade), and even sportswear. Each time I decide I’ve seen enough, each time I return to the escalator, ready to make my way back to the exit. Each time, I spot another escalator telling me there is more to see. Each time, I give in. I would be a coward to give up now. Instead, I am a fool. 

It is after the fifth or sixth instance that I grow weary. What floor am I on? And how many more stand above me? The bottom floors were crowded, packed to the brim with bulky shelves and eager customers. But as I go higher, the upper floors are a lot less chaotic. The colors are less obnoxious, and there are fewer shoppers. I don’t know how long I have been walking. I don’t have the courage to check the time. There are no windows, not where I can see, so for all I know, hours have passed. Maybe days. My legs begin to ache, a yawn breaks across my face, and still, I know there is no place to go but up.

At some point, I see that there’s a McDonald’s about the size of my dorm inside this building. There are a handful of people sitting down, eating fries and drinking from red cups. My gaze lingers on someone eating Auntie Anne’s pretzels as well. She looks similar, strikingly so, to someone I used to know, but it can’t be. So I keep going. 

Eventually, I make it to the ninth and final floor. I don’t see anyone else around; it seems I’m the only one who has made it this far. A giant model train greets me at the top of the escalator. Around it are household appliances: microwaves, espresso makers and stand mixers. There is a bright red stand mixer that reminds me of someone I’d known since elementary school. We’d been friends almost our entire lives until we had a falling out just before graduation, and we haven’t spoken since. I don’t think about her much. At least I try not to, but when you know someone for fifteen years, you see bits of them everywhere. I’ve found traces of her in the music she liked, the movies we watched, her favorite color, and even in some of the people I’ve met. And here, I’m reminded of the last time I baked pretzels with her before high school ended. We were in her kitchen, complaining about exams and planning for the future, believing we’d still be in each other’s lives even after another three years had passed.

There’s a window on this floor. Perhaps it’s my reward for reaching the top. I find it and look down at the street far below me, far away from that ugly mixing stand, and I wonder what she’s up to. I wonder if anyone in her life reminds her of me, too. I wonder if I should just… reach out, and see how she’s doing. I barely remember what we fought about, and I wonder if it was worth our friendship.

If nothing else, this semester has taught me forgiveness. I found common ground with people I used to avoid, and I’ve reconnected with people I never thought I’d speak to again. I’ve even managed to forgive myself for mistakes I made almost a year ago. And in a way, in a really weird way, forgiveness is like this Macy’s store. It’s a long, confusing path, and you don’t always know where it will take you, or what you’ll see along the way. But at the end, I think it’s worth the view.

I never found that dress I was looking for, but that’s alright. It takes me almost seven minutes of walking down escalators to reach the exit, and then I see it, right by the front doors. Another escalator. This one leading down, into a previously unnoticed part of the store. My heart, still racing, speeds up at the realization that my work here isn’t done. 

But that will be a journey for another day.