1989 met you on the corner of 5th and East 12th, oversized sunglasses on and coffee in hand.

—“You’re late,” she said, grinning. “Which is perfect, because I am too.”

You didn’t have a plan—just a city and a day. That’s how it always went with her. She lived by three rules: wear cool shoes, say yes to random adventures, and romanticize everything—even the weird smells on the subway.

Your first stop was a tiny gallery in SoHo with glitter-covered canvases and one sculpture made entirely of shattered disco balls.

—“Art is just feelings with lighting,” she said dramatically, and took a blurry picture of you next to it. “Caption: ‘found where my heart exploded.’”

After that: dumplings in Chinatown, rooftop wandering in Midtown, a record shop where she held up an old Blondie vinyl and said, “This? This is your vibe today.”

There was always music with 1989. In the background, in her head, shared through one AirPod. She played “Style” while you walked through Central Park.

—“I swear New York is more cinematic when I’m with you,” she said.

You ended up on the High Line, watching the city light itself up from above.