If You Could See the Sun (92)

I’ll miss you, I think.

“Punctual as ever,” I say, closing the distance between us.

He offers me one of his rare Henry Li smiles: soft and beautiful and so startlingly sincere it takes your goddamn breath away. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

For a second, I imagine he’s read my mind. “Miss what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “The midyear awards ceremony?”

“Oh.” A small, surprised laugh escapes my lips. In what now feels like another lifetime, the ceremony alone would’ve been the highlight of my day. Maybe even one of the highlights of my life. “I guess I forgot.”

“That’s understandable,” he says, his smile widening. “Since I’ll be getting all the awards anyw—”

I elbow him, hard, and he laughs.

“Don’t get too cocky,” I warn him. “Just because I’m going to a different school, doesn’t mean I won’t beat you in our IB exams.”

“We’ll see,” is all he says, the challenge clear in his tone.

I suppress a smile of my own. Challenge accepted.

We start walking around the frozen pond, breaking the easy silence with our footsteps, breathing in the crisp winter air. I bury my hands into the warmth of my blazer pockets and look toward the empty courtyard to our left, remembering the first time I turned invisible there. It’s funny, but I haven’t felt cold in a long time now. I’m not sure if I ever will again.

“So,” I say, as we approach a stone bench and sit, his shoulder bumping lightly against mine. “Did you get my business proposal?”

“Yes. All seventy-five pages of it.” His eyes gleam. “And the summary. And the summary of the summary. And the annotated diagram. And the table of contents—”

“Excuse me for being thorough,” I huff. “I really want this app to be good, you know?”

“I know,” he says, no longer teasing. He hesitates, then laces his slender fingers through mine, and I have to focus very hard on remembering how to breathe. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to his proximity, or the way he’s currently looking at me, like he’s in as much awe as I am that we can just do this now. Just sit and hold hands in the near dark and say what we mean. “Trust me, it will be. With the two of us working behind the scenes, your promotional strategy, and the template ready... It’ll be perfect.”

This time, I can’t hold back the grin that stretches across my face.

The idea came to me around a week ago, when we first transformed Beijing Ghost into a fake study app. My plan is to make the app a legit one—one that helps connect rich, privileged kids from private international schools with low-income students like me. It’s meant to work both ways; tutoring and homework help starts from a minimum rate of 400 RMB per session for those from wealthier demographics, but it’s completely free for working-class students. Then there’s the added bonus of allowing kids from disadvantaged backgrounds to form connections with Beijing’s elite.

I’ve also decided to keep the point system in; the three highest-ranking working-class users at the end of each year will get a full scholarship to any school they wish, sponsored by Henry’s company.

“Oh yeah—I sent the business proposal to Chanel, too,” I tell Henry.

He doesn’t look surprised. “Of course you did. What does she think?”

“She’s in,” I say, which is a massive understatement. When I pitched the idea to Chanel over WeChat three nights ago, she’d squealed and started brainstorming slogans and making calls to her fuerdai friends right away. “I mean, her exact words were: fuck yeah! She also thinks the three of us should have weekly meetings to sort this out, starting with hot pot tonight. Her treat.”

The corner of Henry’s lips tugs up, briefly. “I suppose we’ll be seeing each other quite often then. Even after you leave.”

“Even after I leave,” I echo, and the gravity of these words, this reality, pulls both of us back into silence once more. I don’t know what else to say, so I move to nestle my head against the strong curve of his shoulder. He lets me.

“What do you imagine you’ll do?” he asks, a few beats later. “In the future?”

“I don’t know. I want...”

I trail off, my mind whirring. I still want so much, so badly. My heart still aches for all the bright things beyond my reach. I want to be smarter and richer and stronger and just...better.

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.

“For a start, I think I want to focus on English more,” I muse, and just saying it aloud feels...right. Like my heart has been waiting for my mind to catch up this entire time. “Maybe sign up for a journalism course over the break. I’ve compiled a list of suitable options already—ones that offer full merit-based scholarships...”

“That sounds great,” he says, with full sincerity.