If You Could See the Sun

by Ann Liang

without breaking down and/or hitting something.

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.

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

“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?”

fuck fuck I’m so fucked in a maddening, highly unhelpful loop.

But here’s the thing about living in a place full of people who don’t look like you—whenever shit like this happens, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been singled out for a reason.

relatable..

our first and last shot at the American Dream over, the chapter unceremoniously closed.

My parents didn’t work this hard for me to only get this far.

Like menstrual cycles.” For a brief moment, Henry looks stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

“How—how do you know that?” “I notice,” he says simply.

“I mean, I’m not saying I’d be thrilled to get involved in a toxic decade-long intercompany rivalry and kidnap a minor—” “That’s a really great way to start a sentence,” Henry says drily.

“I’d rather be the villain who lives to the end than the hero who winds up dead.”

fixing Chanel with a look that quite clearly implies: you uncultured swine.

this feels even better than answering a Kahoot question correctly in front of the class.

really lean into the desperate-student-attempted-crime-just-to-survive look.