I shut the door to my room behind me and I groan, rubbing my temples. There’s never any peace with my parents—it’s always barbed remarks hidden behind pleasantries. If we had done Ma’s puzzle, she would’ve eventually turned the conversation back to staying in New York for college like she always does. Their disappointment is like a steadily spreading rash across my skin, and I’m tired of itching myself until I bleed.

Ironically enough, my love of film came from my parents. When I was younger, my parents would buy us tickets to the movie theater every weekend.

We’d catch the earliest showing in the morning because tickets were half off for the first show, but my dad would make up for the early hour by buying us popcorn and candy.

Anam always put too much butter on the popcorn—a habit my dad loved to indulge—so me and my mom would share a packet of Sour Patch Kids instead.

Week after week, I watched every single movie I could get my hands on and found myself falling in love with films as a storytelling medium.

My parents were more than happy to support my love for films when it was just a hobby—the same way that they were happy to support Anam’s love for volleyball when it was a harmless game she played in her spare time—but when it became more than that, suddenly their support was all but nonexistent.

It’s not like I’m unsympathetic to what they’ve been through. They’re both immigrants who have sacrificed so much to ensure that their children have every available opportunity. They worked hard to build this life for us, and now they want us to attain every possible success in order to make their hardships worthwhile.

But they’ve taken it too far. At some point, they started caring more about our futures than about us as human beings.

There’s a way to want the best for us without being cruel. There’s a way to want the best for us without causing us pain.

Maybe they don’t know even know they’re doing it. Maybe they’re doing the best way they can.

Or maybe I’m just making up excuses to make this situation seem less awful.

Less than a minute later, my door opens again, and I turn around, a sharp dismissal on my tongue, but it’s just Anam.

She looks as haggard as I feel. “I’m going to lose my damn mind.”

I laugh tiredly. “Join the club, dude.”

Anam holds out something out, which I quickly identify as a volleyball. “Want to throw some around to get away from all this?”