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.”

“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.”

“I hate that. I hate when people justify a clearly inhumane process and use it as some kind of model for success just because the results are to their liking—”

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.

“Good god,” he says with a little laugh. Shakes his head. “For one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, you can really be quite oblivious sometimes.” And maybe it’s the way he’s gazing up at me, somehow tormented and tender at the same time, or maybe it’s the weird half compliment, or maybe it’s every small, subtle moment I’ve missed along the way, now catching up to me in an adrenaline-induced burst of clarity, but all of a sudden— “Oh,” I breathe.

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?”

What is it that you want? The answer had seemed so obvious to me then: I want whatever other people want, whatever they assign the most worth to. But standing here in the middle of a crowded supermarket, like some scene from a childhood dream, the first thing I think of is the English program Mr. Chen recommended to me. Well, not so much that specific program, but the idea of just getting to write for two whole months, or even longer, of having that be what I’m best at...

“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?”

But honestly? I also want to be happy. To invest in something meaningful and fulfilling, even if it is difficult, and maybe not the most practical option in the world. To spend more time with Baba and Mama and Xiaoyi, and finally hang out with Chanel, and go out on a proper date with Henry. I want to laugh until my stomach hurts, and write until I’ve crafted something that delights me, and learn to bask in my small, private victories. Learn to accept that these things, too, are worth wanting.

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.