I Am Not Jessica Chen

by Ann Liang

I’ve always had this theory that if I want something badly enough, the universe will make sure to keep it just out of my reach—either out of boredom or cruelty, like an invisible hand dangling stars on a string.

It’s so easy to be generous when you lack nothing. To be nice when you’re not in pain.

The topic has been written out with a dying blue marker and circled twice for emphasis. It reads: Imperialism is a justifiable means of spreading knowledge and new technologies to weaker nations. “What?” I hiss out loud, blinking at the board. “Are we being serious? Is this . . . is this a legitimate topic for debate?”

But here I am, trying to verbalize my own pain, to justify my own existence, breaking it down into digestible points.

Because to me, wanting has always been indistinguishable from pain.

I feel like it’s the last day of school, the promise of summer flung out ahead of me.