I Hope This Doesn’t Find You

by Ann Liang

“How do you . . . remember all that?” I ask. “I have all your emails memorized word for word,”

“Why do you . . . Why do you put all your energy into making my life difficult? What did I ever do to you to make you . . . hate me so much? It’s been happening since the day we met each other. With dodgeball. With the spelling quiz in year six. With our history project. With everything. Why do you always single me out?” “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.”

If I so much as look at him, then I deserve to be pelted with ice. • • • I deserve to be pelted with ice.

“You had to kiss me, then kick me, then fill my head with your voice. You made it clear—so terribly clear—how much you hate me. That I’m the last person in the world you would ever consider. But I kept looking for signs that would suggest otherwise. I kept wondering if it was still possible. Because I’m willing to lose everything,” he says, his eyes blacker than the surrounding darkness, than the sky outside, “so long as I don’t lose you.”