Anora

That’s how this world works. One broken heart goes on to break another.

After watching Anora, I thought of myself. I thought of J.

For the film's first half, I thought it was nothing more than a mindless hedonistic joyride, a no-brainer. I braced myself for the inevitable twist—maybe Wanja would fall out of love with Ani, or their fights would send Ani back to her Cinderella life, the pumpkin carriage gone. But no, that wasn’t it. The film opens with a row of swaying breasts, setting the tone for a thick, undulating tide of lust. What follows is Ani and Wanja’s whirlwind romance—endless sex, extravagant travels, drunken revelry. A life so unrestrained, so indulgent, it’s impossible not to envy, even as I reminded myself, mid-viewing, that none of it could be real.

But what saddened me most was Ani constantly telling herself this was temporary, an illusion, impossible—only to slip for a moment. Just for a moment, she let herself believe. She let herself believe that Wanja was truly enamored with her. After enduring so much wreckage, after barely surviving in the shadows, even the faintest light filtering through the cracks becomes a powerful faith. The bitterness, the resentment, the self-loathing in the past—they all fuel that faith. The thought that you’ve suffered enough, that luck and beauty have finally arrived, that you, too, are worthy of such a life—it grips you so tightly you can’t let go. Because if you do, you’re back to square one. Nothing has changed. You were always meant to live in the shadows. Faith is a fragile, double-stranded rope, twisting and weaving itself into a net of hope. But when you fall, you realize it cannot hold the weight of a shattered soul. When faith breaks, hope collapses with it.

The moment J kissed me, I was startled and caught off guard. Even in the darkness, without a mirror, I knew my cheeks were flushed and burning. We held hands as we walked through the streets, I played with his red curls, and he climbed into my bed. And yet, my own insecurities—about my appearance, about every failed romance—kept me on edge. Even as I traced his lashes, his eyes, his nose, even as my hands wandered between his butt and the curve of his waist, I enjoyed it while whispering to myself: This is temporary, an illusion, impossible. “I really like you.” He said it over and over, between kisses. And I slipped, just for a moment. The next morning, he left. He didn’t look back as he boarded the train. I stayed in a room that still smelled like him, playing Heather on a loop. "Why would you ever kiss me? I’m not even half as pretty."

But how guilty is Wanja, really? He is just another broken soul. He wanted to escape, too. Maybe, for a fleeting moment, he truly believed that marrying in America would free him from his parents and the homeland that had shackled him all his life. But when the clock of reality struck, Ani’s panic was no longer his concern. He could only flee in his own dazed despair. That’s how this world works. One broken heart goes on to break another. And the wounded are always the ones to blame. No one offers comfort—only responsibility. It fucking sucks.

The final act of the film is the most devastating. After finally receiving a sliver of understanding, a rare moment of solace, Ani could only respond with sex. In her world, her body had always been currency. She felt nothing for the man before her, but could sex not be a token of gratitude? And so, in the car, she let him enter her, let her body rise and fall with his. But just as he moved to kiss her, she hesitated. She resisted. Because she did not love him. And in that moment, as she relived the whirlwind of the past week, her faith was obliterated. The net of hope collapsed. She spiraled from gratitude to surrender to resentment to devastation, finally breaking down, sobbing into his chest. In those brief days, she had believed she had found love. That, for once, her body was an offering to love, not just to men. But the tears soaking into a stranger’s shirt screamed: "Was I never worthy of love? Do I truly not deserve it? Is this really the end?"

"Hey, what are you looking for? It’s always the first question I’m asked on the app. But I don’t fucking know. I really don’t know. I deleted the app, then redownloaded it, over and over, as if I needed to keep convincing myself that I deserve to be loved. Do I need sex? No, not really. Do I want love? Yes, but I don’t deserve it. I wander into spaces thick with lust, music, with drugs and flesh, hoping to find love, yet unwilling to surrender my body to strangers. And so I drift, weaving in and out of crowds without meeting a single soul. I envy those who navigate this world so effortlessly, and I ask myself: "What are you looking for?"

Anora tears the fairytale of love apart. The older you grow, the more you realize—life is cruel. Even simply loving someone is never simple.