A Pho Love Story

But in anything you love, isn’t there always some bit of sadness, some essence of suffering? That, to me, is what makes art worth it. Suffer through it—mine the emotions you keep inside yourself, face whatever’s emotionally burdensome, take control of it—then emerge reborn in the end.

Think about what you want. What you want to make and add to the world.

There’s so much in your life that you can’t control.… So maybe you can use this chance to do something for yourself.

She's scared. And I wish I could tell her that I am too, that I don't know how it'll work. But if we could just hold hands a bit longer maybe we could figure it out.

I watch her shoulders move as she breathes, until I realize I’ve timed my breathing with hers.

I regret many things in life, and I know I’ll regret many more at the rate I’m going.

When I paint, there’s always a moment where I just know that I’m finally finished. The colors and textures come together to depict a feeling of rightness.

I’m still here, you know. Nothing’s changing the way I feel about you. Whatever we find out, we’ll find out together.

Sometimes when I think too much, I make myself sadder, which doesn't help at all.

Ba, all the struggles that you went through. You’ve surpassed them. Now you just deserve to live.

I find refuge in art, escaping thoughts like this, to regain control when life throws another obstacle my way. When I work, magic happens; for a few hours at a time, the world just slips away.

We're background characters in each other's stories.

It’s an unfortunate reminder that as much as my community represents the true American Dream—building a foundation out of uncertain hopes and dreams—people like you would rather be ignorant or spread hate than accept this reality.

A good life only comes if you have security—that’s what my mom’s basically saying. Anything beyond that is just a pipe dream

There are people out there who don't have the energy to help people get better. They just accept the other person's flaws, and sure, there's less conflict to deal with, but it's almost like living out a lie. Then there are people who aren’t afraid to point out something’s wrong—even something as little as a typo. In the end, you’re making something better, and that’s more than other people are willing to do.

For people like us, sadness is part of our inspiration. Others might bottle up their sadness and pour it out on certain occasions, but we let it pour from us and into our medium.

It’s crushing to see my parents look scared. Because when they’re frightened they’re no longer the people who raised me to be strong, but strangers who look older than they really are.

The light falls on our family’s black-and-white photos, which have watched over me as long as memory serves me. The sight of them sends me some hope. Whatever happens today, they will be our witnesses.

This is becoming something more, but like many things in my life, it can’t all happen at once. These feelings, this crush, whatever you call it, they’re something to keep to myself. To contain before it gets reckless.

That’s Ali. This is me. And I want you, specically, to read this.” “Why?” I say, laughter bubbling in my throat. “Because I’ve never written something like this. So I want you to be the first one to read my first article.

It’s easy, when you’re having fun, to forget about matters that seemed important only an hour ago. Or at least pretend that they don’t exist.

A good life. A good life only comes if you have security—that’s what my mom’s basically saying. Anything beyond that is just a pipe dream.

It’s just a suggestion, she probably thinks nothing of it, but the easy dismissal of my hobby makes the taste of patê sô linger uncomfortably on my tongue.

But I lied to you, Bao. I want us. I've always wanted us.

I sit up quickly and my vision spins. Sometimes when I think too much, I make myself sadder, which doesn’t help at all. I find refuge in art, escaping thoughts like this, to regain control when life throws another obstacle in my way. When I work, magic happens; for a few hours at a time, the world just slips away. I don’t have to listen to customers comparing me to Evie. Any worries about upcoming tests or working a shift at the restaurant - that all takes a second place in my mind. My attention fixates on an image or an idea that doesn’t exist just yet, and can’t exist without me.

Go back where? Where else would Linh’s parents go? My parents? By now, half of their lives have been spent here. The country they remember us not the one that exists today. So why should they go when they so clearly belong here?

In my mind’s eye, far into the future, I’m seeing myself in a newsroom, a big one. In some big city. I see nights working under desk lamps. Ink staining my shirt cuffs, eyes tight and bleary from unrest. I see words flowing from my fingertips.

What did Hansan Minhaj say one time? Older siblings ‘go to war’ for their younger siblings? Because that’s what it was like. That’s what I did. So that really means, you owe me everything.

It’s generally accepted that in families like ours, the older kids have it way harder. We’re the fines pigs in a real-world lab.