If You Could See the Sun

by Ann Liang

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.”

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

“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.”

AWOOOO WOOF WOOF WOOF

“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?”

oh the tension is PALPABLE

I guess that’s the thing: 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.

“Descartes was wrong, you know, when he said, ‘To live well, you must live unseen.’ To live well, you must learn to see yourself first. Do you understand what I’m saying?” And I do. I do.