If You Could See the Sun

by Ann Liang

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.

HAHAHAHA

“I remember everything,” Henry is saying. Then he clears his throat, some indecipherable emotion flickering over his face.

“Well?” Henry leans forward. His dark eyes are alight, his chin angled up a few degrees, the sure, sharp lines of his body tense with something like anticipation. I realize he’s waiting for me to give my opinion—no, for me to compliment him, like some kid proudly holding up his artwork for a class show-and-tell. My lips twitch. “I didn’t know you had such a praise kink.”

CACKLING OMG

And that’s the problem. Here at Airington, there are many different tickets to respect—talent, beauty, wealth, charm, family connections... But kindness is not one of them.

“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?”

Girl he loves you

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.

Mr. Murphy means well, I know, but his words play over in my head like a taunt. What he doesn’t understand—what most people here don’t understand—is that I don’t have the luxury of taking it easy. If I’m not swimming as hard as I can, feet thrashing at the waves, I’m drowning.

“See, this is why I can’t stand people like you,” I seethe, jabbing a finger in his direction. “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?”

SO CUUUUTE

“You tend to stop being so scared when you’re angry,” he explains. Confusion bubbles inside me. “How—how do you know that?” “I notice,” he says simply.

“I think it’s rather romantic,” Henry says lightly, while more roses threaten to take over the entire illuminated screen.

He's so sweet

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.”

Then there’s Henry. Henry, whose head is resting against my shoulder, the soft curls of his hair brushing my cheek, his features smooth and unguarded in sleep. 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.

He moves so our knees are close to touching, and I ask without thinking, “Is this the part where you kiss me?” He leans closer, and even in the dim hotel lights, I can make out the silent laughter in his eyes. “That was not my intention.” A pause, teasing. “Why? Did you want me to?”

The rest of my words die on my tongue as Henry straightens, laughter still dancing in his eyes, cups my face in one hand, and presses his lips against mine. This time, I do register the kiss, everything from the warmth of his skin to the brush of his lashes when he closes his eyes and— Wow. 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.

All I can think about is his lips, so devastatingly soft on mine, and his hands, now firm around the back of my neck, tangling deep in the roots of my hair... There’s a slight chance that he’s better at this than I am. Just this once, I’ll let him have it.

“Punctual as ever,” I say, closing the distance between us. He offers me one of his rare Henry Li smiles: soft and beautiful and so startlingly sincere it takes your goddamn breath away. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

“It’s a deal then,” I say, angling my head to look up at him. “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.” He laughs, and the sound is like bottled magic. Like birdsong.

I turn my gaze toward the sky, my fingers still intertwined with his. In the distance, the darkness has started to lift like a veil, the first light of dawn spilling over the Beijing skyline, a promise of all the beautiful and terrible and sun-soaked days to come.