Even just the memory of my first real date caused me to cringe with embarrassment. It was sophomore year, and I had been asked out by Chad Edelstein from my Literary Theories class. Our first—and only—romantic engagement ended with him leaning in for a kiss outside my dorm room, and me shyly yet teasingly turning my head to gaze into a nonexistent camera, causing him to make out with my right earlobe for a solid ten seconds. I eventually got better at these types of interactions, yet whenever I would be introduced to another blond-haired, blue-eyed guy, a small voice, which sounded eerily similar to my mother’s, would sound off in my head like a broken fire alarm—never ceasing to remind me that I was failing my culture, and essentially myself, somehow.

I tried my best to ignore that voice, but despite my efforts, in the end, I couldn’t imagine running through a meadow with any of the non-desi guys surrounding me—no matter how unbelievably good their hair was. As much as I hated to admit it, I too had subconsciously imagined my future to be with someone closer to my counterpart—an American-born South Asian man. Who shared my affinity for Bollywood romances. And who also happened to be Muslim—or was at least willing to convert to Islam to prove his undying love for me. Being with someone who not only understood my culture but also lived it as I had would definitely have its perks. I wouldn’t have to explain things like why my mother called me five times a day just to remind me to eat, or why I couldn’t go out twice a week because my hair was slathered in amla oil. Plus, it wasn’t worth going to war with my parents over.

So I ended relationships before they even started. I pretended that love was merely a social construct that failed to exist outside a silver screen. I convinced myself that my feelings were an inevitable side effect of all the Bollywood movies watched during my impressionable years as a youth, but the truth was, I wanted to experience love. It was just that I had yet to find someone who mirrored the dashing image of the Bollywood hero who had stolen my heart from that very first pelvic thrust.

“Look, Annie.” I sighed. “When I do meet the right guy, I’ll just know. I don’t need some list to tell me what I want.”

“I’m sure you do know what you want, Leila,” Annie replied with a hint of frustration in her voice. “The list is just there to keep you focused on the qualities that are important, and a few of the ones that you may need to . . . compromise on,” she continued with such an intense look that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Fine,” I groaned. “Let’s make a list. But just so you know, all the qualities I’m looking for are important, so there’s no need for any compromising.” I grabbed a napkin off the table.