A couple weeks ago, our 51-year-old founder was talking about the 30 under 30s list, looked at me, and said "you should be on that list one day". I know he meant it as a compliment, an I-think-you're-great-and-you-should-go-for-it little comment but since then, I've felt this additional bit of pressure to do something, anything, now. Apparently, there are statistics to show that the most successful founders are about 38 when they found their company, which doesn't really jive with the whole 30 under 30 thing. But being a founder, to me at least, seems like the absolute hardest thing in the world. Arguably, you're trying to do something innovative and hence, new. Let's say you get there. Let's say, you've thought of something and miraculously, none of the other 7 billion people in the world has tried doing it. This means you're trying to convince everyone (your potential users, your investors, your employees) that this thing you've conceived in your head is something that is viable, valuable, and needed in the world. And then, you have to make money from it. I feel like I'm on this constant rat race of learning enough to eventually be a founder, contemplating if that's even what I want to do and discovering a problem I'm passionate about then discovering a solution someone else has already created for it that was coincidentally exactly how I had thought about it and it's exhausting. Honestly, I am tired and life is IMO, not that hard. A friend brought up the Comfort Crisis: a book about how humans have created a world where no one really has to go outside of their comfort zone, or really, even their homes. You can order in, stream a movie, work from home, do anything you want and call it treating yourself. All of this, I think, ties in with the idea that by the time you're 30, you have to have your shit together. You have to know the job you're doing for the rest of your life, the person you're going to be with, ideally have plans for children if you don't already have them or know that you don't want to have them. You have to have found yourself and I have major angst about not being able to do that. I'm 23 and already feel like I'm too old for so many things. Is that not absolutely preposterous?

It was the first time my flatmate and I had really spoken since we moved in together 5 months ago. We had said hi and bye, and updated each other about what was happening on the day but this might've been the first time we had sat down, had some food, and really bonded. We were both contemplating our jobs - navigating between our creative (the more fun) and analytical (the better paying) sides, and having similar decision fatigue about being interested in everything and simultaneously not being particularly great at anything. We talked about our lifestyles and what our ideal day-to-day would look like and then finally, landed on the topic of friendships. It's here that I should probably mention that my flatmate is also my best friend's boyfriend. Though we all went to university together, he has primarily been known as 'Sako's boyfriend' to me, and everyone else who knows him vicariously through my stories. I mentioned that I had been grappling with the idea of making more friends. That I was getting the impression my mum was getting worried about my lack of social interaction. That at work, someone who had gone to school in New Orleans came in to speak with us and mentioned in passing that she didn't have many friends because she had just moved here. "Don't worry, I've lived here for close to five years and only have two friends", I had replied. My measly attempt at making her feel better about her situation pretty much propelled her into a well of pity for me, instinctually offering herself as another option. "It's all by design. Kyling doesn't want any more friends", my CEO had said. Super to know what your boss thinks of you. I relayed this story to my flatmate, realising that he had just about a thousand friends. That was one of the reasons we had gone so long without having a real conversation. He was always out - at dinners, at volleyball practices, at a friends house, at a party. It was one of his selling points Sako had used to show him off - something about how he had so many friends come to his birthday party and it was so last minute! That must mean that everyone was willing to drop their plans to come, which must mean something about his character. He must be so nice. When I pointed that out, he smiled faintly, saying "yeah, I guess I have many friends, many people I know, but I don't have friends like you do". Yes, you have more, I think we've established that, I had thought before he went on. "We used to play this game - who would save you if you were in a burning car and I don't know many people that would". In that moment, I realised it was an instant-replay of a conversation he had had with Sako a few months ago, where she had pushed back on him thinking she should be making more friends, too. "If I was in trouble, if it was the middle of the night and I needed someone, I know for a fact that I could call Cat or Kyle and they'd be here, how many people could you say that about?" and I couldn't help but feel a little like that girl from New Orleans, volunteering as tribute to save myself from the awkwardness of feeling sorry for someone I actually thought had it all together. As cliche as this all sounds, I knew then and there that I had made the right choice. That given the opportunity to have a hundred friends, I'd take my two ride-or-dies who had been there through every heartache, celeration, every piece of drama-llama life had to throw at me, every failed job interview then every successful one. The two people who I have a permanent attachment to for life. Literally, because they forced me into getting matching tattoos that I do not want to regret, ever. To Sako and Cat, who would only ever read this because of their undying love and support for me.

January 3rd, 2021: London My Houseparty app still reads ‘last together: date”. Ironically, it happens to be the actual day we were last together. I can't quite remember now, and that might give you an indication of just how long I've had to move past this, but I really hope we didn't break up over Houseparty. I mean, that has to be worse than a text. It’s a new low when your relationship has an uncanny resemblance to an app. It boomed in the midst of a pandemic, was unexpected but exciting, escalated so quick and died in a matter of months and now only one of us keeps it in the back of their minds as a nagging reminder of what could’ve been something great while the other has moved onto better - Apps. And people. I guess I’m only writing this to make myself laugh. My self-deprecating jokes were something he didn’t quite appreciate because he thought I should think better of myself. It’s amongst a list of other things I know he’s right about but refuse to give in on because it temporarily entertains me. Nestled in that list is probably qualities like ‘over sharing’ and ‘being long winded’. Yet, here we are. The isolation is setting in, I’ve spent Christmas, New Years and all of my holiday days with the companionship of well, this website, and Netflix asking if I'm still watching. I don’t know if its my introverted self retaining the energy I’d otherwise drain or the crazy that’s setting in, but the giggles have taken over as if all I’ve eaten this week were weed brownies. I’m kidding. If anything, I’d probably bake the weed into one of the 10 thousand banana breads that I’ve perfected over quarantine - one of the things he claimed I attempted to use as a trap to make him stay. Yeah, maybe. That, and the instagram selfies he was no longer seeing because he 'hides all of his exes stories', like a healthy person, but of course I'd never know what that's like. How could I when the first thing I did was scroll through our old messages, starring my favourite ones so the self-inflicting heartache was in easy access. A prime example of a message I'd star is my response when he told me he was seeing someone new - 'when you said I was a clown, I thought you meant I was funny'. I still think I'm funny. Dating during the pandemic was awfully similar to my last relationship (we won’t go there in this one because it would genuinely take up all the space this website has the capacity for). Mostly, greatly, probably entirely because I was back home - a swift 14 hour flight away from the UK, away from him. Most people only get blessed with that long of a long distance relationship once in their lives but I've lost count of my unlucky stars. What topped it was the shitty (and I mean, we couldn’t even have a stable audio call without being reminded that the call was reconnecting every couple of sentences, kind of shitty) internet and the whole family being trapped under the same roof. I appreciated the two weeks I spent hauled up in my room, quarantined away from my Asian parents who would be shocked at the conundrums I got up to just to seem exciting. Let's not judge. You'd get inventive too if you were shipped off in the same month that you thought you found the one. Despite it all, the first couple months seemed, really great. I wrote in a journal entry that it was the perfect balance of not being smothered but not feeling out of touch. I'd say it was all in my head but thankfully, I have the receipts of two wistful lovers shocked at how easy it all seemed. Almost too good to be - oh. Sure enough, we hit the 2-3 month period and things were starting to get patchy. We did everything we could. Communicated, compromised, we tried his way and mine and nothing seemed to be coming up right and none of my words seemed to be coming out right. I was patronising, I could see that now, passive aggressive with my 'jokes' that I used to quiver away from having a real conversation about his emotional distance. God forbid I had the balls to have a mature conversation about how I needed reassurance on how he felt about me. He was like all of my closest friends, mirrored prisms that held everyone's attention effortlessly. They'd light up the room, their charisma and charm that could make anyone feel like they were important because they only ever reflected the conversation back to you. Their walls built high and sturdy because they only ever needed to rely on themselves. If they ever chipped, you'd never be the first ones they called. They wouldn't call anyone. You wouldn't sneak a peak until the box fully broke, or they were ready to share it because they had already put the pieces back together themselves. I didn't think I wanted to change him, if anything my friendships with other clear boxes never seemed to work - we're all too obsessed with talking about ourselves yet not selfish enough to share what’s truly bothering us. But maybe I felt the need to be needed, to over-compensate with the one quality I thought I was better at and maybe he should've told me he was planning on moving to San Francisco - yeah, it came out of the blue to me too but as I said, I rather talk about me. The funnier I tried to be, the more offensive I was unintentionally being and the further away he felt, the more desperate I got to hang onto it. See, I was being excessively needy. Which is, not me and all the more frustrating because of my need to over-explain the situation until I truly believe I’m understood, which just made me feel crazier. I'd say I hated being on my phone, yet answer his texts within the minute; try to be interesting and share the most meaningless stories. It’s like Trump saying he cares about Americans, yet doing everything he possibly could to prove otherwise. First I compare myself to an app, now to trump, and this is why I would never do well on dating apps. I'm not a clinger. This most recent lockdown was a testament to that. My parents seemed to be extra worried about their youngest spending the holidays alone. My mom even asked if there was a boy I could spend it with as if she wasn't experiencing the same pandemic I was. "That doesn't mean there isn't space for romance", she cooed and I presented her with the same look of disgust that I have on right now. Boys really didn't need the extra repellent of an infectious disease to ward me off. My flatmate and I approach the male species in different ways. We were once playing a game where we had each written on pieces of paper, mixed them in a pile and took turns trying to read them aloud without laughing. Our other flatmate's contribution to the pile included a series of her ex-flings, each scrap of paper dawned with a different persons name, all within the same friend group, of course; and for me? The notion that I like pork more than dick. I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations because I truly do not know what I would sooner give up. I could only bear veganism for a week but being single is like a competition that I'm consistently winning. It's not like I'm repulsed by them. Clearly, this whole piece is about me being infatuated with one, so there's hope. Then again, I did spend my one and only day on Tinder swiping left until the app ran out of people in my city. And I live in London. Maybe that's why the idea of him was so hard to give up. A cocktail of knowing how rare it is to find someone I'd open up to physically and a fairytale story we talked about telling our mixed-raced kids who would rule the world. Two BAME romantics that met unexpectedly, each just grinding to chase a passion for creating and helping the world? My inner romcom geek was screaming. But if I was being honest, I tended to block out any negative feelings that might've bubbled up. I think about his mature and caring response when I shared my baggage; how he wanted to show me off to all of his friends; how he encouraged me to make my first website and dropped everything when I was upset to sit on a call with me even when I hadn't asked for it. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't perfect. In fact, there were a few days before he pulled the plug that I had considered doing the same, I even went as far as removing the contact picture of us I had assigned to his number. Deffo the same thing. Somewhere along the way, I must've decided to keep fighting for it instead. It just so happened to be at the same time he gave up - a week before I was coming back to London. Sometimes I struggle to remember what he sounds like, and his imaginary grasp on my waist isn't as lifelike as it used to be, I don't get the same intense warmth from remembering the way he looked at me. The feelings are like a sailor-less boat on the ocean. My limited scientific knowledge hinders my predictions of the direction that it'll sail in each day, sometimes it moves miles forwards and I think I'm back on track and other times, it drifts back. Somehow, I'm not too worried. There's that old tumblr (so like old, old) quote about how people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. It doesn't take a genius to figure out which one it was with him and how much of a better place I’m in now relative to where I was at the start of the year. Initially, it was hard to distinguish because I had so many external factors to blame. I was constantly making excuses for why it didn't work out and why my what-if thoughts were valid. Maybe if it was a slow burn, there wouldn't have been a burnout; maybe it was the timing, the loss of routine or the moving; maybe it was the uncertainty of me even ever coming back to the UK, maybe its maybelline - or the lack thereof. We’re not shallow, but, you should see what a winged liner does for me. I spent a long time being angry about the expectations that were set up and never followed through. At the rate we were going, I’m meant to be married, with child, and set up in a home with a TV that disappears into the floorboards by now. So why am I home alone, with some hot cocoa, writing this? The pandemic has made relationships either fail or flourish. What a joy for him that he's got to experience both, with me tied to the former rather than the latter. I know what it feels like to have your boyfriend talking to someone you know is not entirely over him and for that reason, I haven't replied since. I don't quite know when the next person will come along and swoop me off my feet, but I'd be barking up the wrong tree, even if that tree was what came whistling first. I'm just saying, we all need to pick our battles, and maybe we're better off like the app - deleted and forgotten. February 13th, 2022: London I remember writing this post - it was the first I ever wrote for Thoughts. Like the relationship at the time, this post stayed as a nagging reminder in the back of my head, pleading to get dealt with. I constantly made up excuses to leave it 98% finished. "It has New Years and Christmas in it, I can't post it in the summer", "I don't know how to end it", "I'm not ready to be done with this" and later, "I don't know what it is to feel like that anymore". Soon after I wrote that, I felt the feeling slowly trickle away. It wasn't until my best friend asked "do you still think of him?" and I responded with "who?" that we were both convinced that era had passed and was laid to rest peacefully. If you are ever feeling how I felt last year, I hope you take some comfort in the idea that I now can't fathom that feeling. I'm with someone else, someone who never gave me those gleeful feelings of being so wrapped up with them, someone who has never made my heart squeeze or my stomach feel light. But I hear and seriously believe that it's a good thing. He has, similarly, never made me feel anxious, never made me feel like I was overbearing and I was never made to feel insecure enough to need constant reassurance. Here's to knowing there's better out there for you and for them, because it certainly beats any high that an unstable, fleeting relationship will ever give you.

I hate walking home at night. I’ve said this since the day we moved in and even before that, had a sense that the area seemed sketchy. Weeks ago, I was walking home and was stopped by a homeless man, asking for £20 to stay at a hostel. It was supposedly his birthday, though how many times have you heard that one? Typically, I’m reluctant. I would love to be one of those people who hand out money to the homeless but I’m not. I am selfish, the kind of selfish who thinks they’re generous and shame others when I have spurts of rare giving moments. But today, I was coming from my aunts house - so I really had nothing on me. I had no cash, no coins, not even my bank cards which I promptly explained to the man in front of me. Also, £20? uhm. I’d like that too, thank you very much. I’d wince at £1 let alone £20. The man continued with his speech. He just needed a place to stay. It was the New Years. It’d be a nice thing to do. And I repeated mine - “I’m really sorry I just don’t have anything on me, I’m so sorry”. I tried to walk past him but he stopped me in my tracks, repeating the same tune I could now repeat to you, word for word. I sing my song back and he asks me to bank transfer him from my phone. In the middle of the road? Sorry but, the fuck? I’m getting tired of repeating myself by this point, just wanting to go home so I offer to get him something from Tesco’s. “No”, he said “I just need the money to get a hostel”. Again, I tried to move past him but again, he followed. I was getting anxi. I was terrified, to be honest. The man looked disheveled and aside from the clear drug use, he also hand his hand in his pocket and God knows where my imagination can run to in these times. What if it was a knife? What if he’d threaten to follow me home? Frantically, I darted my eyes to the people walking around next to me, silently screaming “HELP ME”. Yet, no one stopped. I ran over to the Tesco’s as it was diagonally behind me, so I knew I had a half metre of a head start. I called out behind me: “I’m just going to the shop! I can get you something if you want“. He follows me. I see him stand outside the Tesco’s while I slip in, pacing the aisles and catching my breath. I tell the lady by the cashier, but obviously, she didn’t know what to do either. “You could wait here till he’s gone?“ she offered, and I took it, sitting on the only bench in the place. From there, I told my friends and waited. 20 minutes later, I started to feel some hope that he’d be gone. Too soon after that feeling came, it vanished. I felt the blood rush down my body as I saw the man walking towards me in the Tesco’s. “Are you okay?” he asked, and I thought that was strange. Yep, yep, fine. Just kinda running away from you and what you might possibly do to my dead body. He then proceeded to run through the same speech he did on the outside - homeless, needed £20 to stay at a hostel, it’s his birthday, it’s nice to do, you look kind, don’t you want to help, you look like you want to help. The reality is, I don’t want to help. Not really, anyways. I wanted to be in my bed. I wanted this to be over. The security guard ushers him away, only because he had entered from the exit and seemed to be bothering a customer. I saw him wait outside the Tesco's again. It was almost like I had my own bodyguard, one I needed protection against, not from. As I sat on the bench, I thought of asking someone for help. Just go up to her, tell her what happened and ask her if she could walk out with you. That’s it. That’s all you have to say. It took so long to psych myself up that she had already left, but there were more, i’d just had to tweak the pronouns in my plea and build up more courage. What seemed like an eternity later, and was realistically about 1 hour of sitting on this stupid fucking bench, I approached a couple who were each offering to pay for their shared basked - they seem nice, I thought. Maybe they helped the homeless man. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but I was being followed by this homeless guy and I live right there but he was blocking my route home and I was just wondering if you guys saw him when you came in?“ I had planned this. I wanted to know if he was there, sure, but more than that, I wanted to be walked home, but didn’t have the courage to ask so directly. It seemed to have work as the couple then offered to walk me home. Saying that they’d just pop their groceries in a bag and we can get going. “Really? That’d be so amazing“ I said, acting shocked and overjoyed. I was grateful, obviously, more than grateful, I would've probably given them the £20 for just offering, but I was also expecting it. The couple finished up and started walking with me. He wasn’t there on the way out, not that I paid much attention - I was focused on the ground and trying to shield myself behind these two lovely humans that I was clearly using. On the 2 minute walk, we discussed the man and how they, too, had come across him on their walk. They hadn't given him the £20 either. They were sweet and I got home safely. I recounted the story a couple of times - to my coworkers to gain sympathy, to my family to gain respect. Tonight, weeks after the incident, I saw him again.

I've been wanting to go to the restaurant, Hai Di Lao, for a couple of years now. The global chain is famous for their hotpots and particularly, the noodles that come served with a man stretching them right in front of you in an amusing dance. Every time I walked past it, it was a wait of a couple hours at the minimum. The top floor of the restaurant was reserved solely for queues - a nail salon to occupy the time and a bubble tea shop to curve the hunger. An hour and a half later, our number was finally called and we walked down the stairs to an arena-like, sterile arrangement of beige tables, seats, shelves and cupboards. We were directed to our seats where we ordered from an iPad and it didn't take us long to notice that that wasn't the only strangely mechanic thing about the restaurant. We couldn't help but notice our company. 90% of the customers were clad in designer clothing with even more shopping bags in their hands. It looked like they were almost scowling at the free snacks the restaurant had to offer - more for me, at least. Despite being Chinese and occasionally blurting out a word or two of what I can remember, I felt awfully dissimilar from the people in the restaurant and it was sad to notice that my boyfriend seemed even more out of place, too scared to even get water because he didn't know if they'd yell at him. The worst was being in the restaurant and seeing the clear disparity amongst the cleaners, waiters and customers. I know that Chinese people hadn't always had the easiest path - I got that lecture early on in life - but knowing that if my boyfriend and I role played this restaurant, there would be no other option than me as a waiter and him as a cleaner shocked both of us. The waiters were all Chinese, tending to customers and their special requests like 'could you please bring these down to table 54 after they've ordered and put them in a vase of water after'. The cleaners, were all Black. Having both grown up in Malaysia and being familiar with the cultural and racial biases, we were worried. Wanting to ask the cleaners if they were okay, if they were being treated fairly, if they were allowed to even speak to customers, because it really didn't seem like it. Now, contrast both of those to the styled out Chinese customers who ordered at least two times the portions they could consume and you had a pentagon even the Hunger Games Capital would shiver at. At this restaurant, there was no attempt. No exceptions. No hope. It almost made Amazon look good. Almost. We both left feeling.. odd. On the one hand, we had a fun experience eating, cooking and seeing the noodle dance. On the other, we felt guilty. Guilty for (literally) feeding into the extortion and segregation. Looking at the reviews, Hai Di Lao seems to be glowing and growing. Some part of me feels elated that Chinese culture and cuisine was becoming more popular - that the popularity of the place went against the stereotypes of eating dogs and pigeons, especially after COVID. I want to say that the experience turned me off the restaurant. That I'd no longer go there and support it. But the truth is that I have no idea. If a friend wanted to try it, would I go? Would I tell them about the shocking experience and advise against it? I think we'd all like to think we're the type to advocate against but sometimes it doesn't seem that simple. Say we do boycott the restaurant, we rally for better working conditions, fairer pay and equity amongst their staff. If not, the branch goes bankrupt. Then what? The cleaners are out of jobs, out of money and out of proof of employment? And then what? And then... what?

I’m coming to you from my bed. That’s not unusual, but the way I’m feeling is. I’m covered in Chinese medicinal wraps and a heated blanket and on my bedside table you’ll find a collection of glasses with the fizzy tablets in it, painkillers, my half eaten dinner and a wad of other vitamins. So I think I’ve burnt out. It’s not a feeling I’ll easily admit to and honestly, I’ve been fighting my colleagues about it for a while. They all seemed to have noticed what I couldn’t - that I needed to take a holiday, that I should take a blood test, that I was low on energy and that 300% of the level I was currently at might just amount to a normal human average. Even our founder who works from 7am to 12am, 7 days a week had offered me ‘fatherly advise’ to take a couple of weekdays and do nothing. Still, the message came at 10:42pm while he was still at the office and we both agreed that although it was ironic, it was sound advice. My own father told my to stop and smell the roses - at that point, it was still winter and I used it to my advantage, noting that all the flowers were dead and he, defeated you admitted that maybe having a sense of humour was more important than flowers. But now it is spring, and my only excuse is the hay fever that might drive me more insane than working would. As a graduate, I didn’t think I needed a break. My exams were always after a holiday so I never truly got one because I’d be studying through any planned period of rest. This is what I told everyone. The guy I was seeing, the other guy that I was not and all of my friends. “It’s the people who think that they don’t need a break that most probably do”, I was told and now, sitting here with minimal will to ever get out of bed again, I’d have to agree. Yet I’m here, trying to write this as a sign of productivity. At least this misery will bring something worthwhile. A lesson to other people, maybe. But something tells me that the people who won’t listen, are the very ones who need to hear it the most - our stubbornness disguised as diligence never quite letting our minds truly be at ease. If it’s not working on this then you’re at least thinking about that, guilt penetrating your veins when you’re hanging out with friends, planned ‘rest days’ that turn into something that looks like sitting in a hot bath with your laptop perched on the side of it. Every real break I take gets celebrated by my flatmates. Sometimes I’d come out of my room announcing that I did nothing, that I took a bath and only used my iPad to watch a show - I promise, that I did a workout or went for a massage. ‘Ugh Kyle, you deserve it’, they’d say, yet I never quite think I do.