The Apartment Behind Pho Holic

My favorite memory with my mom was sharing the same bed in the two-bedroom apartment with the other room rented out. She would kiss me good night and hold me tight while we slept. I miss laying on her stomach, hearing the gurgling noises of what we had for dinner that night, as she brushed her fingers through my hair to sleep. I miss coming home from school and a warm meal would be waiting for me. Although she would tell me that we were moving out soon, we were happy in the small two-bedroom apartment in the dark alley behind the Pho restaurant we used to eat every weekend. 

I have a room I share with my sister, but we would still come over to her room now and then to just talk. We stopped after the talk turned into lectures, turned into “You have your room”, turned into Don’t go into my room without permission anymore, turned into I’m leaving for a few days, food’s in the fridge, turned into I’ll be back in a month your sister can drive you to your track meets. 

I always knew my mom wasn’t the type of moms who have all the time in the world to come to her kid’s talent shows or plays to watch them perform. She was never the type to ask me unimportant questions like how was school. And I accepted that because I thought that was just what Asian households are like, but then I realized that it wasn’t always like this. We used to be affectionate and hugs used to be warm and comforting. Now it’s like something went wrong off-camera in season 2–like we’ve entered the Upside Down. I sometimes wonder what life would’ve been like if we never moved out of the two-bedroom apartment behind Pho Holic.

Monkey Bars For Mascara, Slides For Sephora

I started doing face masks when I was 13 years old. That was coincidentally the same year I started doing my makeup. I would steal it from my mother, the time she caught me, she laughed and took me to Target to buy stuff for myself. 

You’re too young for all this crap, my dad says. You don’t want to end up like her. Her referring to Priscilla, the girl next door who doesn’t know any better. Priscilla who doesn’t have a mom to show her how to put on makeup. Priscilla with layers of makeup that make people like my father say lipstick on a pig. Lipstick on a pig. But I didn’t care. I was happy. I fell in love with the tiny details and the tedious steps. I liked the concentration on creating the perfect winged look. I liked how you could just change how you look completely. It gave me excitement and confidence. It gave me identity. 

It’s been only a handful of days since I’ve gone without it. You don’t need it. They say you look better without it. But I got obsessive. Face masks turned into scrubs, which turned into pimple patches and hundred-dollar shampoo. Haircare turned into hair dyes. Mascara turned into fake eyelashes and turned into getting them done. And skincare turned into spray tans. Beauty was like a drug. It was a feeling of ecstasy and serenity that came at the price of feeling empty without it–an addiction.

I thought makeup was fun. That was because boys would never understand that feeling of getting dolled up with their friends in the restroom for a special event. Boys will never understand girlhood. It’s funny how no matter how young you are, you will always see makeup differently. I was 11 when we would say I could never wear as much makeup as her–now look at us. We traded monkey bars for mascara and slides for Sephora. 

On several occasions, however, I wish I was never so obsessed with drawing and putting glitter on my face. Sometimes I wish makeup didn’t feel like a daily chore. I can understand why Priscilla did her makeup the way she did. The way you wouldn’t understand as a 13-year-old who just discovered makeup for the first time. Beauty is fun–I’ve always said, but I felt more beautiful when I was 13 years old than I ever have since then.

Grandma Kim

You’re not responsible for fixing someone. It is not your job to heal them and make them reveal hidden parts of themselves, no matter how much you want to show them the good parts of love and rewrite their stories. 

But what If I can’t help it, Grandma? What if I have a thing for fixing people?

Even those who don’t need my fixing–even those who I find perfectly imperfect. I see a project in everyone because it keeps me distracted from the construction site inside of me. I’m a fixer. I fix things. I fix my sister’s broken closet door. I fix the hairs that are out of place when I see someone’s hair. I fix my work so that it’s perfect. I fix other people’s problems even if they never ask for it. Some were successful while others were not so much. 

We can’t always control who we are attracted to, but remember my dear, we mustn’t lose sight of our own happiness and well-being. It’s important to prioritize our own feelings and sure that any relationships we pursue are healthy and mutually fulfilling. Trust your instincts and surround yourself with people who bring out the best in you. Remember dear, you deserve happiness and respect in any relationship. 

Thank you, Grandma. I say, pressing the bright red ‘block’ button, ending all the confusion and mixed emotions once and for all. 

I continue to share my questions of the world and she has an answer for all of them. We talk and talk for what feels like 10 minutes, but hours have gone by. These conversations only lasted about a week before she had to fly back to Vietnam. We hug and I kiss her goodbye. As the days go by, our conversations replay in my mind like a whirlwind trapped in a box. It’s a beautiful chaos that dances through my thoughts, leaving me reminiscing and nostalgic. I cherish the moments we share, and they continue to inspire and shape me. It’s amazing how our words can have such a lasting impact.

Mom’s Sister Emily

I must confess, my sister, Emily, has always been the epitome of attraction. She was a stunning model, often commanding the spotlight, leaving me to dwell in the shadows. Whilst I am undoubtedly proud of her accomplishments, the disparity in attention has oftentimes vexed me. Emily, you see, possesses an insatiable craving for adoration. Her unquenchable thirst for attention knew no bounds. It was an embarrassing sight, witnessing her pulling off these wild stunts, regardless of the toll it took on her well-being. Alas, her career began to diminish, as the fashion industry shifted its gaze towards younger muses. Emily found herself in quite a predicament, consumed by a sense of emptiness and neglect. Yet, her driven spirit refused to yield. Oh no, she was insistent on any means necessary to reclaim the spotlight. As the sand slipped through our fingers, Emily’s addiction to her appearance grew increasingly intense. In a desperate attempt to regain attention, Emily began a path of self-imposed starvation, convinced that being the skinniest model to ever exist would make the agency put her on more magazines and more billboards. It was as if she was betting her very life on it, all for the sake of fame. Days turned into weeks as I watched as my sister’s health deteriorated. Her organs struggling, but she refused to visit the doctors. She was stubborn as it was, afraid that the doctors would force her to eat. Emily held onto this glimmer of hope that her extreme actions would get her noticed once more. Which, eventually it did, but it was far too late by then. Well, death claimed her. It was a tragic loss, a real heartbreaker. But Emily did get what she wanted in the end: News reporters had heard of her tragic hunger strike and the extreme measures she had taken in pursuit of fame. They showed up at her funeral, cameras in hand, ready to capture the sensational story. It was quite a scene if you ask me. Her face appeared on billboards and magazines, capturing the world’s attention. She scoffs. She’d do anything for attention, even in death.

Can’t Trust No One frfr

I’ve always been a fast texter. Maybe it’s cause I’m always on my phone. 

Or maybe it’s just because I know the way some days I feel incredibly alone. 

So I can notice little switches when people’s typing styles change. 

They go from sending emojis to only a one-word exchange. 

I try to keep the conversation going because I care about people, I know. 

And they were responding so fast, it’s weird that now they’re so slow. 

I only have a few people in my circle. Honestly, I try to keep it pretty small–

friends that I know would always pick up if I suddenly decide to call. 

Every now and then, someone new gets invited to try to join and honestly, I’m pretty lenient 

but this has hurt me a lot in the past because they only answer when it’s convenient. 

The worst are the ex-friends. People that used to ‘know’ so well 

because when you were really going through it, they could never tell. 

But they only text when you’re exciting, 

because they want to be on the list of whoever you’re inviting

To your inner circle, to your celebration,

to be in the crowd of your standing ovation. 

But the sad thing is–before this happened, they didn’t care about you at all. 

Because on the list of importance to their life, they labeled you as small. 

And they have no idea, that you really wanted them to be around.

 Not just when all those celebrations happened, but when you had breakdown after breakdown. 

But you love yourself fully, so you completely understand. 

Some people make the invitation list, while others get banned.