If You Could See the Sun

by Ann Liang

I’m friendly with everybody...but I’m friends with nobody.

“But back to your new power—” “It’s not a power,” I cut him off. “It’s an—an affliction—a difficulty, a very major inconvenience—” “Everything’s a form of power,” he says simply.

Sometimes the universe offers us the things we think we want, but which turn out to be a curse,”

“And sometimes the universe grants us the things we don’t know we need, which turn out to be a gift.”

“So...are you telling me this is a curse? Or a gift?” “I think,” Xiaoyi says, screwing the Buddha foot back on, “that depends on what you make of it until it goes away.”

“Everything is temporary, Yan Yan. And all the more reason to seize whatever’s in front of you while it’s still there.”

Because even though I’m smart, I’m not that smart. Not the kind of prodigy-level smart you would expect to find at Harvard, the kind that would allow me to skip all my classes and still rank first in every test, that would make everything come easily. I don’t say this in a self-pitying way, either; I’ve long acknowledged and accepted my limitations, and done my best to compensate for them with sheer willpower and hard work.

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.

“You’re so driven. So determined. No matter what happens, you just have a plan and you do it—and you do it well too.”

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.