Adiba Jaigirdar bangladesi ír

“I don’t have a type,” I say, and it’s true. I’ve never really thought about having a type. I guess my type is… beautiful girl. Which is a lot of them. Most of them? Pretty much all girls.

If you have to think about a party that hard, you probably shouldn’t go. Although that’s not worth much coming from someone who never gets invited to parties.

I guess it’s not that simple to get over someone. I still have a thing for Taylor Swift, after all—even though I hate all of her white feminism nonsense.

Chapter 12

How can she sit in front of me and act like there aren’t a million things wrong here?

I swallow down my words about how none of this is a choice. That I can’t change the way that I feel. How do I make her see that? How can she not see that?

If you have to think that hard about the last time you prayed to Allah, I don’t think you get to hate gay people on the basis of God.

The choice she wants me to make isn’t between being gay and straight, it’s between them and me. Who do I choose?

“If people can have emotional support dogs, why can’t you have an emotional support sister? Bengali culture doesn’t like dogs so that’s just discrimination!”

“When it happens to someone else, it doesn’t feel as important as when it happens to someone we love.”

After all, it’s not just Bengali relationships that are complicated, is it? It’s this weird, suffocating culture that tells us exactly who or what we should be. That leaves no room to be anything else.