A Friendship Lost to 9/11: Remembering Sue Kim 25 Years On

It’s hard to believe that more than a quarter‑century has slipped by since September 11, 2001—a date that still feels like a scar, not just in the headlines but in the tiny, personal corners of our lives. For me, the scar is a name: Sue Kim.

Sue and I met in a cramped Boston coffee shop back in ’97, both fresh out of college, clutching mugs of overly bitter espresso and dreams that felt as big as the city skyline. We clicked over a shared love of indie music, a habit of taking the same subway line, and a stubborn belief that we could change the world, one small act at a time.

Our friendship was the kind that seemed effortless. We’d spend evenings debating whether the newest novel was overrated, then slide into silence, each of us comfortable with the other’s presence. I still hear her laugh echoing off the brick walls of our favorite East‑Boston bar, a sound that now feels both distant and immediate, like a song you can’t quite place.

Then, on a clear Tuesday morning, the sky over Manhattan lit up with an unimaginable horror. The news flickered on the TV in my tiny apartment, and a cold dread settled over the room. I called Sue, half‑expecting to hear her voice, half‑expecting silence. The line crackled, and she answered, her words tinged with shock.

We tried to make sense of it together, both of us sitting on opposite coasts, our phones turning into lifelines. As hours turned into days, the magnitude of what had happened began to sink in. The towers fell, the city we loved was wounded, and somewhere in that chaos, the thread that bound Sue and me started to fray.

Weeks later, a grief‑laden envelope arrived at my doorstep. Sue’s mother, with a trembling hand, informed me that Sue had been on a business trip to New York the very day of the attacks. She was in a hotel near the World Trade Center, caught in the crush of ash and panic. The news hit me like a physical blow; it wasn’t just the loss of a friend but the loss of a future that we had imagined together.

In the years that followed, I tried to fill the void with work, with new acquaintances, even with the occasional reminder of the city’s resilience. But every time a plane’s engine roared overhead, or a Memorial Day ceremony played on TV, a piece of me went back to that coffee shop conversation, to the unfinished chapters we never got to write.

Now, twenty‑five years later, I still keep Sue’s favorite vinyl on my shelf—a reminder that music, like memory, can outlive tragedy. I light a candle each September, not just for the strangers lost, but for the one friend whose laughter still rings in my mind. The world moved on, and so did I, but the ache remains, a gentle, persistent pulse that tells me love, even when cut short, never truly disappears.