If You Could See the Sun

Yes, is the obvious answer. I do hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate you so much that whenever I’m around you, I can barely think straight. I can barely even breathe.

I’d rather be the villain who lives to the end than the hero who winds up dead

Descartes was wrong, you know, when he said, 'To live well, you must live unseen.' To live well, you must learn to see yourself first. Do you understand what I'm saying?

And everything about this moment is so lovely and so fragile in its loveliness that I’m almost afraid to hold it. Afraid that the spell will break.

I didn’t know you had such a praise kink.

You're still a kid, you know.

If I'm not swimming as hard as I can, feet thrashing at the waves, I'm drowning.

Is it really too much to ask? For people like me to want a bit of that light for ourselves?

It's nothing like the way they describe it in the movies, like all the stars aligning and fireworks exploding across an ink-black sky. It feels both quieter and bigger than that, as simple as coming home and as dizzying and all-encompassing as the wind rushing in around us. It feels like a thousand banished and buried moments have been building up to this - to us alone and untethered and weak with wanting - and maybe they have.

Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a pattern.

And while it's important to know how to fight your way to the top... It's always nice when there are others to help lift us up, don't you think?

God, I've missed him. I somehow still do, even though he's standing right in front of me.

I sneak a peek at his Spotify playlist, half certain it’ll be all just white noise or classic orchestral music, only to find Taylor Swift’s latest album playing instead.

I want to get good grades. Graduate. Get a job in whichever field my strengths lie." His brows furrow, like he doesn't quite believe me. "Not what you're passionate about?" he asks delicately. I lift my chin. "I'm passionate about being good at things." There's a defensive edge in my voice, and Mr. Chen must hear it. He drops the subject. "Well, all right then. I suppose I should let you go to lunch..." "Thanks, Mr. Chen." But as I turn to leave, he adds, very quietly, "You're still a kid, you know." I falter. "what?" His eyes are kind, almost sad when he looks at me. "Even if it doesn't feel that way now, you're still only a kid." He shakes his head. "you're too young to be this hardened by the world. You should be free to dream. To hope.

If I'm not first, I'm nothing.

I think about why I’m doing this. I think about why I want—no, need, always need—the money. More money. I think about how ironic it is, that in order to become the person I’d like to be, I might have to do the last thing others would expect of me. I think about guilt and karma and survival and how being good doesn’t ever promise you anything in this world—only power does that.

You’ll become the head of the number one tech start-up in all of China, and I’ll be a renowned, award-winning journalist or English professor. Together, we’ll—” “Be the nation’s greatest power couple?” he offers. “I was going to say conquer the world,” I admit. “But sure. I guess we can start small.

Talent isn't the same as genius" -Henry

He lets go of my wrist, dragging a hand through his hair instead. “Good god,” he says with a little laugh. Shakes his head. “For one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, you can really be quite oblivious sometimes.

It makes me almost dizzy, thinking about the stark differences in realities, what will be and what could've been.

I guess that's the thing: I've spent my whole life longing to be seen, but I've also come to realize that when people look too closely, they inevitably notice the ugly parts too, like how the tiny cracks on a polished vase only become visible under scrutiny.

Dimly, I remember myself thinking not too long ago that we could never kiss. Something about stubbornness. Something about discipline. I remember thinking a month ago about how much I hated him, how I couldn't bear to even be in the same room as him. Now I can't bear the few inches of distance between us.

The neglected ones, the unlucky ones, the ones who want more than they've been give. The ones who have to crawl and scrape and fight their way up from the very bottom, who have to game a system designed for them to lose. Always the first to be punished and blamed when things go wrong. Always the last to e seen, to be saved.

Streaks of dark, wet pink and glistening blue seep through the sky like spilled watercolor, while floating lanterns rise gently over the horizon like ghosts. A soft breeze drifts over my skin, carrying with it the fragrance of chrysanthemums and fresh-baked pastries from the snack stalls below. Then there’s Henry.

You think that just because you’re all smart and wealthy and attractive you can just do whatever the hell you want—” “Wait.” Something shifts in the black depths of his eyes. “You think I’m attractive?

Descartes was wrong, you know, when he said 'To live well, you must live unseen.' To live well, you must learn to see yourself first.

Why? Was it—was it bad?" The words tumble out of my lips before I can stop them, like water gushing from a broken dam. I hate that this is always my first instinct: self-doubt, anxiety, the nagging feeling that I did something wrong.

to live well, you must learn to see yourself first.

You know,” I muse out loud, “if it weren’t for the fact that we hated each other’s guts, we’d probably make an impressive power duo.” I expect Henry to raise his eyebrows at me as usual or make a cutting remark, but his footsteps suddenly slow beside me. “Wait. We hate each other?