MAHAM WAS WRONG.

And any consideration I had towards her unconventional words flies straight out the fucking window when my dad asks me about my studies the next morning (because that's all he ever talks about with me. Does he even know who I am as a person?).

Sunlight streaks through the tall window panes behind the breakfast area, reflections of white rectangles splaying over the dark wood of the table. The television airs the morning news that can be heard at a soft volume from the open kitchen.

Forking through the scrambled eggs in my bowl, I try my best to ignore the hint of fear creeping up my spine. Talks like these never end well. "They're going fine. I have finals next week and then I'll be done."

"And what are your plans after you graduate?"

The words spill from my lips before I can take them back, "I don't know, I think I'll—"

"You don't know? What do you mean you don't know?"

—beat.

And there goes my appetite...

I put the fork down, taking a deep breath to prepare myself for the inevitable lecture that always comes with this topic of conversation. "Look, I have a plan. I'll do my Master's in Healthcare Management, but I'm just not a hundred percent certain if I want to commit to that yet. I... want to take a year off to figure it out. Work a bit, earn some money."

Placing another plate of toast on the table, my mom takes a seat next to my dad before digging in. "How do you spend four years in college and not find out what you want to pursue?"

"You mean, how do I only spend four years in college to find out what I want to pursue for the rest of my life?"

Whether my parents genuinely understand the point of my argument doesn't matter as they brush it away into the dustpan and down the trash (along with the rest of their daughter's opinions).

"Everyone does it, Karina," my mother continues. "People get a Bachelor's degree and they've already got a full-time job lined up for them in the field they want to work in. Like Aisha—"

Oh my God. Here we go. Why do they have to ruin my mood first thing in the morning?

"She's already working in software development, and the Rizvis' son is doing his MBA"—my mom turns towards my dad—"You remember the Khans' daughter, don't you? Haneen graduated high school early, and she's already received her Associate's degree in two years! Her mother was telling me the other day about all the certifications she's working towards and..."

At this point, my brain knows better than to waste its energy in processing the auditory input that comes from my parents. I know they only mean well and want me to have a stable job, but it's times like these that make me feel as if they don't care about my happiness and well-being. They just want a reason to brag about me to other parents.

The Comparison Game is something that a good majority of the children in our South Asian community are victims of. Though most times it's unintentional, it still leaves a permanent inky stain on our self-esteem. We like to think of it to be a result of the generational gap and the differences in how they lived back home before coming to America. Their way of thinking isn't exactly wrong; it's just... different. Way different.

While my mom continues her rant on how successful other kids my age are, her voice slowly fades away as I continue to eat my breakfast and listen to the television behind me. There's a commercial about a resort on a fairly new artificial island. Do people really go to these? I can't name a single person I know who actually has.

A golden sun, soothing waves, and warm sand...

Commercials like these always sound too good to be true, like a pleasant dream you desperately wish was real.

When I realize that the kitchen has grown silent, I know my mom has finished talking.

"I don't understand why you always compare me to other kids," I finally tell her in an attempt to defend myself. "Not everyone has the same—"

"I'm not comparing, Karina," my mother interrupts, her voice slicing through every opportunity for me to defend myself. "We're just telling you that you're wasting time by taking a year off. And if you don't know what you're doing after graduation, then you should have listened to us when we told you to change your major."

A seed of self-doubt drops into the pit of my stomach, joining the countless others that have probably sprouted into unwanted weeds by now. My friends have always supported me and my decisions because they're going through the same turmoil, but leave it to my parents to make me feel like I truly did waste four years of my fucking life despite the fact that I genuinely loved learning about healthcare. The thought of graduating doesn't even appeal to me anymore. The pride and relief that's supposed to surge through my veins are absent, resulting from the constant anxiety for my future.

I look down at the bowl in front of me, the food tasteless and cold. If I still don't know what I'm doing, then did I really make the wrong choice?

My mom sighs, the exhaustion of having this conversation multiple times sinking into her tone. "There's a timeline for everything."

"No, there isn't"—I aggressively shove the rest of my scrambled eggs in my mouth—"It's like you're expecting every kid to get a doctorate's degree by tomorrow. It's just not realistic."

My dad rejoins the conversation after finishing his chai. "We just want you to have a stable job. And some fields always have a greater demand than others. We don't want to see you struggle in the future."

I can tell the conversation is about to end when my mother's voice starts to raise. "Karina, you can't take years and years to finish your education—"

"It's not going to take years. I don't want to take that much time off, Mamma."

"—you'll be too old, and no man will want to marry you."

And there it is — the ultimate cadence to our minor symphony. Because in the end, though she doesn't always explicitly mention it, this is what it always comes down to.

My grip on the fork tightens until ivory knuckles blend with my tan skin. "So what? At least I'll know what I want to pursue, and I'll be happy. You're making it sound like women aren't worthy unless they have a man beside them."

"No. That's not what I'm saying," my mother rebukes. "You're being too sensitive."

I should have just shut up and nodded from the start, taking in all the punches without flinching. After all, I should know better than to expect my stubborn parents to consider my point of view.

The notion of caring about what others think was implanted in my parents' generation's consciousness before they even immigrated here. Obviously, they want what's best for their children, but they only think of it in terms of job stability and marriage. Mental health? They don't believe in it. Taking time off to explore more options? Never heard of that. And God forbid: a girl trying to be independent before being tied down to a boy that her parents set her up with? Never met her — girls like that are practically nonexistent.

Unless you're Maham Mahdi, and you're fortunate enough to have parents who are slightly less traditional.

Given the polarity of opinions, it's emotionally draining to live in a household surrounded by people who have different views. There's only so much I can take before my patience blows over past its maximum threshold, like a tea kettle blowing a violent whistle.

"You should have chosen nursing school like Maham," my mom mutters under her breath. "I don't know why you changed your mind halfway through."

I blink back the urge to roll my eyes. She does know. She knows it's because I don't want to do it anymore; the interest in it was lost a long time ago. Who knows how many more times I have to say it in order for her to let it go?

Don't talk back, Karina. It'll only make things worse.

When biting my tongue no longer seems to suffice, I dump my dishes into the sink, dart up the stairs into my room, and scream into a pillow until an itchy burn coats my throat and my chest heaves for air.

I need to get out. I need a break away from the constant reminders of my uncertain future, adamant expectations, finding a job, final exams, and—

     The island.

Scrambling to open my laptop, I search up the name I heard on the TV, and sure enough, there's a legit website. The island isn't that far and the tickets could easily be covered by my checking account. My desire to leave Cleveland grows stronger when I see the images of the vibrant turquoise water and emerald palm trees. I can practically taste the sea salt on my tongue and feel the ocean mist on my face.

But I can't. Even if I want to, I can't just drop everything and sneak off to a goddamn island. Just looking at this website makes me feel guilty, and my parents would turn crimson from how livid they would be at me.

Then again... one act of rebellion won't make me a bad person — especially if it's for myself. If I wanted to sneak off to an island, I could just go for a couple of days and be back before my exams. My parents would already assume that I'm staying in my dorm, so I won't need to worry about coming up with an elaborate lie.

I stare at the payment page as it patiently waits for me to complete the reservation.

Do I need a break that badly?

Oh, fuck it.

Before I have a chance to regret my decision, I cover my eyes and click the confirm button.