Asians Ex Diary !new! Direct

Last night, I found an old receipt from that Thai grocery store we used to go to. The one where your mom would buy frozen pandan leaves and I’d get shrimp paste in a jar that looked like it survived a war. You used to joke, “Our love is inter-Asian — same trauma, different dialects.”

I still have your kimchi in my fridge sometimes. Not the good homemade kind — the store-bought one you said was “acceptable.” You were always generous with your critiques. asians ex diary

We broke up not because of love. We broke up because I couldn’t explain to my lola why your father’s ghost stories about the Japanese occupation made you so angry. And you couldn’t explain to your aunt why my family’s colonial Catholicism still made me cross myself before lying. Last night, I found an old receipt from

Because here’s the thing no one tells you about being Asian and falling in love with another Asian from a different Asian country: you spend half the time bonding over the similarities (rice, filial piety, saving plastic bags) and the other half quietly decoding each other’s wounds. Your family’s brand of strict wasn’t my family’s brand of strict. Your “I’m fine” meant something else in Cantonese than it did in my mom’s Tagalog. Not the good homemade kind — the store-bought

I didn’t have an answer then.

Now I do: because some heartbreaks are too precise for translation.