The wind on Our backs

10- Food

Krystal and Rachel decided to go out for dinner together. As they walked down the busy street, Krystal turned to Rachel and asked, "So, where should we eat tonight? I'm not really in the mood for Chinese food, though" she added with a casual laugh. Rachel laughed too, but it came out strained, awkward, like a poorly timed note in a familiar song. The joke stung more than she wanted to admit. Rachel had been craving Chinese food. She wasn't sure why Krystal's comment affected her so much—maybe because it was a throwaway remark, or maybe because it hit at something deeper, something that had been simmering under the surface since she arrived in America.

Rachel missed the food from home, the dishes her mom would make, the ones she'd grown up with. There were plenty of Chinese restaurants in the area, but they never quite tasted the same. She'd ordered takeout once, trying to recreate a slice of familiarity, only to be disappointed. The flavors didn't carry the warmth of home; instead, they carried a different kind of sadness, reminding her of everything she was far away from. She told herself that she wasn't being fair—after all, the chefs were probably Chinese themselves, doing the best they could with what they had here. But it wasn't about the food, really. It was about what the food symbolized.

In the end, they settled on an Italian restaurant. As they waited for their food, Krystal snapped a few pictures of them together. She tilted her phone, finding the right angle, and Rachel smiled automatically, her mind elsewhere. The conversation flowed more easily than she expected, and Rachel wondered if maybe she'd been overthinking things. Krystal was talking normally, laughing, asking about her day, and for a moment, Rachel relaxed. Maybe she had misjudged Krystal, reading too much into small details. After all, they were getting along fine now.

When it was time to go, Rachel asked Krystal to send her the photos they took. They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.

Later that night, as Rachel was getting ready for bed, she absentmindedly scrolled through Instagram. She came across Krystal's latest post—the pictures they had just taken at the Italian restaurant. The caption read, "Italian food with my international friend! ."

Rachel froze, staring at the screen. International friend. Why didn't she just say her name? Or at the very least, tag her? It wasn't a big deal, or at least it shouldn't have been, but the words left a bitter taste in her mouth. For some reason, being reduced to her nationality in that moment felt isolating, as if that was the most important thing about her to Krystal. It wasn't that Rachel wasn't proud of where she came from, but being categorized like that—so casually, so publicly—made her feel... different. Like she was being set apart.

She started to wonder if this was why Krystal had been so quick to befriend her in the first place. Was it because she was the "new girl" from another country, a novelty? Rachel hated the sinking feeling that crept into her chest, the doubt that told her maybe this friendship wasn't as genuine as she had hoped. But she didn't want to be that person, the one who overanalyzed every interaction, who saw offense where there was none. She didn't want to make a big deal out of something small.

Still, as she lay in bed, Rachel couldn't shake the unease. She turned her phone off, the screen going dark, and stared at the ceiling. She reminded herself why she was here in America, far from home. She was here to succeed, to make her parents proud, to show that she could thrive on her own.

But as much as she told herself those things, the ache of feeling out of place lingered, making her wonder how much of it she could ignore.