I Hope This Doesn’t Find You

by Ann Liang

In my head, I like to keep a running mental scoreboard of every test, competition, and opportunity in which Julius and I have clashed since we were seven, complete with its own specific point system that makes sense only to me:

I finish underlining the date with my ruler so it’s perfectly straight. This is like my version of drugs.

The workload itself was stressful, yes, but I’m only calm when I’m ahead.

Abigail would affectionately refer to such behavior as my sociopathic tendencies.

The textbook was wrong. The most beautiful arrangement of words to ever exist. It’s like someone’s injected sunlight directly into my veins.

“Your mood changed fast,” Abigail says, seeing my face. “Did Mr. Kaye give you a cash prize or something?” “Even better: The textbook was wrong.” I let out a happy sigh. “I was right.”

Acid churns in my stomach. I hate it when people are mad at me. I hate it, I hate it, I can’t stand it.

It’s too deeply ingrained in me, the need to obey the rules, to show up on time, to keep up my perfect attendance. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, except every time I hear the bell, my instinct is to find my desk and whip out my notebooks.

“Fine, but what I’m saying is, you didn’t do anything illegal. You were just being honest. If I were you, darling, I would own it. Let them fear you a little. Let them know that you have your own thoughts and feelings too.”

I hate that I even need to be comforted; I’m always the one who comforts other people. I hate needing anything from anyone.

Most of the time it seemed to me that I was only pretending to be smart, like an actor who has to play a neurosurgeon. What mattered was convincing other people I was intelligent.

Turns out I always want to be wanted, even by the boy I loathe.

“I guess you’re not the only one who hates me now,” I comment, just to fill the silence with something, to try and pass it off as a joke. He can’t know how much it hurts me. How easy it is to hurt me.

Because beneath my apprehension is the stronger, deeply ingrained need to be liked. To be accepted. To be forgiven. To be recognized as good. I’ll do anything to redeem myself.

I wish I wasn’t the kind of person who is always so sensitive to other people’s shifting moods and tones, who startles when someone raises their voice even a little, who cowers when someone else gets annoyed.

But sometimes my own memory backfires on me. Because besides cold, hard statistics, I remember every single time I’ve lost to Julius in a test, every time someone’s yelled at me, every embarrassment and failure and disappointment. Everything leaves an indelible mark on me, buries a permanent blade under my skin.

Why would I ever give Julius a reason to reject me? Rejection is the most humiliating form of defeat. It’s losing the battle before it’s even begun. It’s lowering your weapon so they can spear you in the chest.

I do need you here, I want to say. Don’t leave me at this party by myself. Please don’t go yet. But the words stick to my throat; I’ve never been good at asking people for things. “No, that’s completely fine,” I tell her. “Go.”

Someone else asks one of the theater kids what her biggest fear is, and she responds with “The realization that life is little more than the slow leak of time until we meet our inevitable demise,” which sends everyone into an uncomfortable silence for a while.

I haven’t given any thought to what others might owe me, only what I owe them.

“I really can’t stand it when people are angry at me. Like, I know it might be simple for others, but I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t just forget about it and go on with my own life. It’s like there’s something hard wedged inside my chest. I’ll always feel guilty. I’ll always want to make amends.”

If I can’t be the best, I would rather be the best at being the worst. If I’m going to fail, I would rather fail at it thoroughly than do a job halfway.

I have the overwhelming urge to find out, right this second. I must know. I hate not knowing things.

“Because,” he says quietly, a curious expression on his face. I’ve never seen him so serious. So sincere. “You’re the only person worth paying attention to.”

“Glitter is, without a doubt, the worst thing humanity has ever invented.”

There’s nothing I want more than for time to be a physical thing, something I can split into two with my own hands, so I can turn it around, shatter it, undo all the consequences.

“Just because we had goats doesn’t mean we didn’t have parties.”

I haven’t felt that enthusiastic about life since I finished color-coding all my history notes.”

“I was genuinely attracted to a cartoon lion at thirteen. Like, something about his claws really worked for me.”

So ready to split me open with a single word, stitch me up again with a fleeting touch.

Abigail listens to what she refers to as sad music for hot girls,

I open my mouth. Then close it again. I’m so used to taking responsibility for everything, to apologizing to her and everyone else, that it feels wrong not to say sorry.

“You know what? I hate you,” I breathe, because it’s easier to say I hate you than you hurt me. Because both options might shatter my heart, but at least one of them leaves my pride intact.

Julius Gong is dead to me, I vow silently. If I think about him again— If I so much as look at him, then I deserve to be pelted with ice. • • • I deserve to be pelted with ice.

I’m so tired of playing nice, of smiling as people walk over me. What I’m realizing is that if you’re quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission. And they’re going to hurt you again and again.