I'm fucked. Seriously. So fucked it’s not even funny. Everyone on my feed thinks I'm living the dream, right? Bali this month, Santorini last year, Maldives coming up. All those sparkling ocean shots, the infinity pools, the sunsets with a fruity drink in my hand. That fucking perfect tan. People commenting "OMG goals!" "Living your best life!" "You DESERVE this!" Deserve what? This mountain of debt? I just got the statement for the last trip. Another five grand added to the pile. And that's just the fucking flights and the resort. Doesn't even count the fancy dinners, the little excursions, the stupid souvenirs I bought just because I was there and felt like I had to. Felt like I *earned* it. My parents, they see the photos, they’re so proud. My mom called me, “*Masha’Allah, binti! You are truly making something of yourself. A real success story*.” Success, my ass. I’m working myself to death for these photos. My 9-to-5, it’s not bad, I’m a marketing exec. But it doesn’t pay for this lifestyle. Not even close. So I picked up freelance clients. Nights. Weekends. During my lunch break, sometimes. Designing logos, writing copy, managing social media for these small businesses. While everyone else is unwinding, I’m hunched over my laptop, eyes burning, downing another coffee. The money comes in, and for a hot minute, I feel like I’m catching up. Like I’m getting ahead. Then another cheap flight deal pops up. Or a friend posts about some incredible new resort. And that little voice, that demon, starts whispering. "You need a break. You work so hard. You deserve this. Just this once." And the cycle starts again. Book the trip. Put it on the card. Scramble to find more freelance work. Pray I hit my targets at the main job so the bonus comes through. It’s like a drug, the high of booking, the brief escape, then the crushing anxiety when the bills land. Last week, my older brother called. He's still back home, helping our parents with their shop. He was asking about my "vacation plans." He said, "You’re always traveling, *khoya*. You must be making really good money." I just laughed, tried to make it sound casual. Like, yeah, it’s just how I roll. Like I’m some jet-setting baller. Meanwhile, I’m looking at the balance on my Amex and feeling like throwing up. He’s probably thinking I'm so successful, that I've "made it" in this country. That I don't have to struggle like they do. I can’t tell them. I can’t tell anyone. It’s so much shame. All this pretense. All this FAKE. My feed is a goddamn lie. Every picture is a lie. Every caption about feeling "blessed" or "grateful" is a lie. I’m not blessed, I’m terrified. I’m not grateful, I’m drowning. My apartment is a mess, I eat instant noodles most nights, and I haven't seen my friends in weeks because I'm either working or too exhausted to pretend to be human. Sometimes, late at night, I pull up the credit card app and just stare at the numbers. It’s a fucking abstract painting of all my bad decisions. All my chasing after something I don't even know what it is anymore. Just this image, this glossy, curated image of a life I don't actually have. I think about what would happen if I just stopped. If I deleted all the photos, admitted it all. But then what? Then I’m just… me. Broke. And nobody wants to see that. Especially not my family, who sacrificed everything for me to have this "better life." I’m supposed to be the one who succeeded. The one who went out and brought back the glory. My parents talk about me to their friends, how I’m doing so well here. How I’m "free." But I’m not free. I'm a prisoner to this stupid performance. My neck hurts from looking down at this phone, scrolling through the next place I need to pretend I’m going to. The next destination that will somehow fix this. It won't. I know it won't. I just booked flights to Thailand yesterday. The points covered some of it but... still. Fuck.