It almost feels sacrilegious to write this: MAUREEN CALLAHAN’s unobstructed view of 9/11, the phone call she’ll never forget… and horrors only New Yorkers know

If you’re a New Yorker, every September you’ll be asked: Where were you? Did you see it? What was it like? Did you lose anyone?

I’m always reluctant to talk about it — not because of what happened to me that day, but because of what didn’t.

It can feel almost sacrilegious to speak of September 11 when so many innocents died so unthinkably, when first responders ran up those stairs while everyone else who could ran down, when heroes worked what came to be known as The Pile — work that would later, in far too many cases, leave them with cancer or catastrophic respiratory illnesses that would kill them.

Many of those heroes are still with us, still fighting for their lives and the care they were promised.

But because this is the 25th anniversary, and to add to the historical record, I humbly share mine.

That morning, the sky really was a perfect, cerulean, cloudless blue. I was getting ready for work in my one-bedroom, fifth-floor apartment in the heart of Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

This was well before Chanel and Hermes and Harry Styles moved in.

The neighborhood was gentrifying, but it was still underdeveloped, and for the inconceivable rent of $850 a month, I had unobstructed views of the East River and Manhattan — from the Twin Towers to the Chrysler Building.

At night, there was nothing more gorgeous than that skyline.

I was applying makeup in my tiny bathroom, getting ready to hop on the subway and head to my job at Spin magazine in Midtown East, when I got a call from my brother, Bill.

‘A plane just hit the World Trade Center. Don’t go into the city. This could be a terror attack.’

I thought he was overreacting. I rushed to the window, and there it was: the North Tower, bisected three-quarters of the way up by plumes of black smoke.

There was no thought yet that it might collapse. Or that thousands of people would be lost to this carnage. You couldn’t think that way. It was too much.

Immediately — whether out of denial or delusion, probably both — I told my brother no, this probably wasn’t terrorists. Most New Yorkers knew of the 1945 plane accident in which a US Army B-25 Mitchell bomber crashed into the side of the Empire State Building.

This had to be that.

We hung up, and I kept getting ready for work. The TV was on now, no clarifying information forthcoming. My mom called, also concerned that I might leave for the city, and I stood at my window, talking to her and watching as a supermassive fireball suddenly exploded, at the same height, from the South Tower.

I didn’t see the plane. So it took a moment to really register what I had just witnessed, and it’s crazy how the brain protects you from paralyzing shock, because I remember thinking: Wow, Hollywood really gets this stuff right in the movies.

That thought lasted only a moment or two. Now it was beyond clear: The United States was under attack by terrorists and New York City was the prime target.

Everything began shutting down: The bridges, the subways, the tunnels, the airspace. New York City never shuts down.

The Pentagon was next. United Flight 93 went down in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, its target unknown — but based on the flight path, one could guess.

Los Angeles was rumored to be next, Disneyland the likely target.

The rest of that day is a blur. I remember, at some point, going to my friend Paul’s apartment down the street. I remember that cell service went down.

We watched the smoke pluming across the river. That smoke lasted for months.

At some point in the evening, I remember my brother reaching me on my landline. He told me he was coming to get me out of the city, that it wasn’t up for debate.

I guess I packed a bag?

The next thing I remember is being in the car with him, in the passenger seat, and he was just flooring it, doing at least 80mph the whole drive. It normally took an hour to get to my parents’ home out on Long Island. We got there in 30 minutes.

In the morning, I sat on the sofa with my cousin, Tim, and watched the news.

By which I mean: We watched the towers get hit, explode and collapse, over and over and over.

Now it felt real.

Tears streamed down my face. My father had laced up his work boots, gathered his lunch and was heading out to work. Before leaving, he turned to me.

‘Maureen,’ he said. ‘You have got to get yourself together.’

After he left, I looked to my mother and asked, incredulously: ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He saw a lot in Vietnam.’

That was it. I understood.

Two days later, I went back. I was scared, of course, but wanted to, even though I had no idea what I would do once I got there.

‘Listen to me,’ my father said. ‘I want you to go out tonight, into the city, and have fun with your friends.’

And I did. Even if, on the subway platform, I let one train go by before asking a patrolling police officer if it was safe to board, to go under the East River into Manhattan. He gently told me yes.

I exited at Union Square on 14th Street, about two and a half miles from the wreckage. The subway doors opened and I was hit with it. I had never smelled burning bodies before, but I knew.

I then walked up the stairs, out of the station, and met my waiting friends in a bar that turned out to be packed.

9/11 – THE 25TH ANNIVERSARY: READ ALL OUR COVERAGE

This city has a life force that cannot be conquered.

Everyone in New York was gentle with each other for quite some time. You’d lock eyes with a stranger on the subway — different race, creed, color, socioeconomic status, didn’t matter — and you’d both nod your heads simultaneously in recognition, in sympathy, in support.

New York City had never been so united. In its way, it was beautiful.

As we mark 25 years, I remain all too aware that mine is a bystander’s story. But in the lead-up to this anniversary, I’ve realized: We’re all telling and retelling our stories of September 11 as much to try to make sense of it as to honor our dead, our heroes, the sick and injured, and the city we all love so much.

Then, now, and forever.