Written in just twenty-five minutes from four spontaneous prompts, this short piece achieves what most drafts struggle toward: a complete emotional arc contained in a single breath. The writer builds a portrait of rebellion and self-definition through rhythm, repetition, and restrained humour, turning a domestic scene into an act of quiet emancipation. In the space of one session, she has shaped a living character, a credible world, and the pulse of transformation, the very movement from passivity to choice.
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I sniffled and wiped my nose with a tissue. My manager, Lindsey, looked at me and said, “Oh, Tala, just go home. You’ve clearly caught something.”
“It’s an allergy from my new room,” I said, trying to repress another sniffle.
Lindsey eyed me. “Your new room? Did you move out?”
I shifted my eyes. “Mmm… no. My mother redecorated my room while we were at the conference in Frankfurt.”
Lindsey’s face went through a rollercoaster of emotions, but she finally settled into a neutral look and said through gritted teeth,
“Oh. Is that what you wanted?”
“No, but my mother did.”
“Mmm, okay.”
I don’t know why, but I snapped. “What?”
She looked at me and said gently, “You’ve been looking at apartments. I just thought you were moving, that’s all.”
She was, of course, telling the truth. But what no one knows is that I have a Pinterest board full of apartment inspo and even a list of things I’d get.
What no one really knows is that I have a box in my car filled with things I’d decorate with , if I had a place.
When I got home, my mother screamed from the kitchen,
“Ya mama, we have guests coming over, and I want you to look pretty, ehh! They’re bringing their son, Yousef. Okay, habibti, I want him to sit next to you.”
She paused, then added with a wink and a smirk, “You have to talk to him shway, you know.”
I walked up the stairs, entered my room, and looked in the mirror when it struck me.
Why have I been waiting for someone else to do it?
I’m taking the lead in my own life.
Is life even ours to begin with?
I snapped out of that line of questioning because no, no, this won’t do.
This is my main character moment.
This is when I choose myself.
Yes, I haven’t been happy.
But now I choose to be happy.
That’s it.
I am happy.
Happy, happy, happy.
I choose to be out of this house, out of this situation.
They’re family, but God, do they always have something to say about everything.
I mean everything. It’s enraging.
I have to center myself now.
I look around my room. I’m twenty-six and still living with my parents.
Even the décor in my room wasn’t my choice. I went on a trip and came back to find everything changed.
I convinced myself it was a sweet gesture, but it wasn’t.
My room smelled of fresh paint, and my mother knows I’m allergic to paint fumes and whatever else. I’ve had to walk around with a stuffy nose for the past week.
And my mother, oh my mother knows I hate the feel of velvet. But my new reading chair was what? VELVET.
I can’t even sit down and enjoy a book anymore.
The color scheme of the room was horrible. Everything was some shade of beige. Who even chooses beige anymore?
Nothing around me reflected who I am.
Not my drawings, not my love of coffee, no pictures of the people I cherish. Nothing in this room belonged to me.
Is this how my mother sees me? Or is it who she wishes I were?
Whatever the answer, it doesn’t matter now. Because I choose happy.
I stepped out of my room and marched downstairs to face my mother, full of determination.
She was setting the dining table, then paused to look at me.
“Habibit mama, shu what’s with that serious face? You need to smile more; that’s how you get a man.”
I felt myself shrink, but that’s when I bit my lower lip and blurted out without even realizing,
“I’m moving out. I already found an apartment.”
My mother’s face froze in pure horror. She dropped what she was holding.
“(La2) La, ya mama! Our girls don’t do this!”
I didn’t wait for her to finish. I left the room. I could still hear her voice, but I got into my car.
I guess I’m not like “our girls.”
And that thought made me smile. I believe I am happy.
Happy, happy, happy.
---Fatima .M. Suwaidi
11th October 2025
* La2 is the arabish way of writing the arabic “no”
* arabiish is arabic/english
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