Currently listening to: Karma – Taylor Swift feat. Ice Spice
You’re talking shit for the hell of itAddicted to betrayal, but you’re relevantYou’re terrified to look down‘Cause if you dare, you’ll see the glareOf everyone you burned just to get thereIt’s coming back around
The evening began at a quaint local Mexican restaurant, its bustling atmosphere alive with laughter and the tantalizing aroma of spices wafting through the air. My excitement, however, quickly gave way to apprehension. Sitting alone, I anxiously awaited Noah’s arrival, my thoughts spiraling as I tried to imagine the perfect way to make a good impression. After all, this meeting wasn’t exactly my idea—my great aunt had orchestrated it at my mother’s insistence.
When Noah finally arrived, the initial relief I felt seeing him walk in evaporated almost instantly. His standoffish demeanor, paired with a faint scowl, caught me off guard. Despite my best efforts to create a friendly and welcoming atmosphere, his lack of warmth was palpable. I reminded myself of my mother’s instructions to be on my best behavior and remained polite, even as our conversation began to feel like a series of unpleasantries.
We ordered tacos, but the silence at our table felt heavier than the food I could barely bring myself to eat. Every attempt I made to spark a conversation fizzled under his lukewarm responses. From what little I could gather, he worked in IT, was four years older than me, and, yes, was also Korean. But beneath the surface, it was clear: he was disappointed. He didn’t have to say it aloud—I already knew.
A few hours after I returned home, the fallout began. My great aunt called my mother, and I overheard the exchange that followed. Noah had complained—vehemently—that I was “too large” for him and that dining with me had ruined his appetite.
My mother’s horrified apologies echoed through the house as she assured my great aunt that I would be “at an appropriate weight” for future outings. Shame washed over me, even though I hadn’t asked for any of this. At the time, I wore a size 8—not the idealized size for Korean women in Los Angeles, but far from grotesque. Still, my mother’s words made me wish I could disappear.
I felt embarrassed for myself, for my mother, and for the situation we were all trapped in. But most of all, I felt the weight of the unspoken truth: no one seemed to care what I wanted.
This would be the beginning of my nightmare…
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