I’m sitting on the floor of my bathroom right now with the door locked and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Not because I’m drunk—I wish I was drunk—but because I just spent three hours pretending I don’t have a fucking pulse. I met this guy, right? Tall, nice hands, actually asked me questions about my career instead of just waiting for his turn to talk. And the whole time, my brain is just screaming. Just absolutely shrieking at me that I shouldn't be there. Like who the hell do I think I am? I have five missed calls from my mom because her glucose monitor is "acting weird" and I’m out here drinking a sixteen dollar gin and tonic trying to remember how to flirt. It’s pathetic. It’s this specific brand of immigrant guilt that just sits in the back of your throat like a physical obstruction. My mother didn't sacrifice everything and move to this country so I could go home with some guy named Caleb who works in private equity. In her head, I’m still the "good girl" who carries the weight of the entire family’s reputation on her shoulders. Any hint of... I don't even know... desire? It feels like a betrayal. Like I'm stealing time and energy that belongs to my parents. I look at these other women in the bar, the ones who just exist without checking their phones every five minutes to see if the house has burned down, and I honestly don't understand how they do it. I’ve been the designated "fixer" since I learned how to translate government letters at age nine. I don't have a "self" to go on a date with. I'm just a collection of obligations. Anyway, Caleb invited me back to his place. And I wanted to go.