If You Could See the Sun (66)

By 11:00 p.m., I’ve visited both the twentieth and ninth floor, taking the stairs to double-check for any hidden security cameras and measuring precisely how long it takes to get from one place to the other.

By 11:15 p.m., I’ve sought out Henry’s room, still fully visible, and slipped through the door when no one’s around.

By 11:21 p.m., I’ve officially started panicking.

“Am I invisible yet?” I demand as I pace in front of Henry, even though I know it’s unlikely. I haven’t suffered through that telltale rush of cold yet, and if anything, I feel too hot, my skin burning, the room stuffy and suffocating despite its vast size.

“You are most decidedly not,” Henry says, crossing his legs over the plush bedside sofa, the gesture so casual I want to scream. How does he manage to maintain such calm in a time like this?

“What about now?”

“No.”

“Now?”

“No.”

“How about—”

“Do you intend to keep this up for the rest of the night?” Henry interrupts, lifting an eyebrow.

“Well, what else are we supposed to do?” I snap. “Netflix and chill?”

His brows rise higher.

And suddenly my face is burning too. Hastily, I add, “I meant in the literal sense, of course.”

“Of course.”

The conversation settles into silence for a moment, save for my frantic footsteps on the carpeted floor and the low, persistent hum of the mini fridge. Then—

“Okay, fine, That’s it.” I press a hand to my throbbing temples. This is the third stress headache I’ve had since we left the night market. “If you can think of any way to distract me from my sense of impending doom, go right ahead. Entertain me.”

Henry seems to take this as a challenge. He sits up impossibly straighter, dark eyes pensive, and says, “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now...”

“No, I wasn’t the one who sabotaged your science project in Year Nine,” I tell him automatically. “Though, if we’re being honest here, I did consider it for a while—only because you were acting so smug about getting advice from Jack Ma himself.”

“That...is not at all what I was going to ask, but good to know,” Henry says. Clears his throat. “What I’d really like to understand, though, is why you hate me so much.”

I blink at him in surprise.

“For the record,” I begin slowly, my mind struggling to assemble a proper response. “I don’t hate you anymore.”

A flash of a smile, so quick I almost miss it. Still, he doesn’t let the question go. “But you did before.”

I nod once. Sigh. “Do you remember that Scholars Cup competition we both entered in Year Eight? The one they held in front of the whole school?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, I remember it vividly.” The press of the warm auditorium lights against my eyelids, the weight of everyone’s gazes on me, the loud buzzing in my ears as I fumbled over my last question. The triumphant look on Henry’s face when he answered his; the look of someone born and destined to win. “After I lost the final round to you...after you went to collect your trophy and soak in all the teachers’ praise, and I was ushered away offstage... I fled to my room and just—just sobbed. I didn’t even eat anything that day, I was so angry with myself...”

I swallow, hard. The memory still brings a lump of shame to my throat.

“And I know it sounds ridiculous because it was—I mean, let’s be honest, it was Year Eight, and the competition wasn’t even compulsory. But there was a cash prize, 500 RMB, and I’d spent months preparing for that thing. Yet right before we got on stage, I overheard you talking about how you’d entered it last minute, on a whim, how you had more important things to do than study for it anyway and—I don’t know. Everything was always so easy for you.” I draw in a tight breath. “Being around you just made me feel awful. It made me hate myself, and over time... I guess that hate grew so big it had nowhere to go but—”

“—toward me,” Henry finishes, a strain in his voice. “Right?”

“But I don’t feel that way anymore,” I say, feeling an inexplicable, overwhelming need to make this very clear. “I promise. Swear on my heart.”

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?”

“I—” Confusion tangles my tongue, speeds up my pulse. Dimly, I think: He really is good at this whole distraction thing. “Why does it matter?”

“You really don’t know?”

I stare at him. Something is happening, I can sense it, but just like his expression, it’s impossible for me to decipher. “Know... Know what?”

He lets go of my wrist, dragging a hand through his hair instead. “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—