If You Could See the Sun

by Ann Liang

“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?” He says this as if it’s actually news to him.

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.

Some emotion I can’t name passes over his face. He reaches out, his fingers forming a warm circle around my wrist, and I stop walking. Stop everything. “Then tell me,” he says, very quietly. “What exactly do you feel toward me now?”

“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?”

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.

“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.