Minor

Chan Ziqian

Chiu Lixia wasn’t one of the students who spelled trouble. Those were angry and aggressive, with eyes that challenged not just your authority but your very right to exist. Or they slept openly in class, indifferent even to the discipline master’s scolding and threats. Lixia was nothing like that. She was a mouse of a child, with a soft, thin voice and scrawny limbs that swam in her oversized uniform. Her small eyes filled with fear whenever her name was called. If someone had pointed her out in the class photo four years later, with her straggly hair and pale, pointy face, no one from Hillside Secondary would have remembered her. Not the students, not the staff — except for Ms. Zheng, the young teacher seated in the middle of the front row of the photo.

Each week, the students of 1D had to write a journal entry at least a page long and submit it to Ms. Zheng, who was both their English teacher and form teacher. Most of the students treated it as a chore, scribbling words off the tops of their heads the morning the journals were due. Cayden Ng, for example, wrote exclusively about the meals he’d had, laying them out in dull and unappetizing detail. Sim Rui Min took a different approach, pouring out her enthusiasm for K-pop groups like BTS and GOT7 and the gossip surrounding their members. Ms. Zheng, in her professionalism and infinite patience as a teacher fresh out of NIE, responded to each entry with care. To Cayden, she asked what he’d liked about the food. To Rui Min, she asked for recommendations of songs. The activity, like any other piece of homework, was not for her benefit. The purpose was for the students to practice their writing skills, expand their vocabulary and become more self-aware. Though there were times it felt like a futile exercise on all three counts, she never admitted that to herself, nor did she give up. Instead, she continued writing encouraging comments and pasting gold stars below their entries.

But in that stack of forty-two journals, there was one that Ms. Zheng grew to look forward to reading. That journal belonged to Lixia. She wrote about her parents working irregular hours and the long afternoons and evenings falling asleep in front of the television alone at home. She wrote about the shame she felt when her classmates pretended not to hear her speak during group work. She wrote about reaching school early and seeing the changing colors of the sunrise from the balcony outside the classroom. Though the writing was clumsy, fumbling for the right words and peppered with spelling and grammatical mistakes, there was a sensitivity in her observations that made Ms. Zheng reach for her journal with some anticipation: How was Lixia feeling? What had she been up to this week? Like with the other students’ journals, she would respond in red ink to Lixia, but her comments ran to a whole paragraph rather than one or two lines. Instead of the usual gold stars, she dug into her personal stash of animal-themed and heart-shaped stickers.

If it seems strange that a child’s journal entries would resonate so strongly with an adult, remember that Ms. Zheng — or Yuqing, as she was known outside school — was only twenty-four, and an unworldly twenty-four at that. As an only child, her every material need was taken care of by her parents. When she turned fifteen, her mother sat her down and told her not to get into romantic relationships while in school as they would only distract her. When Yuqing joined Hillside Secondary, she had never had a boyfriend though she had her fair share of admirers — she was beautiful without being conscious of it, with clear, fair skin and dark eyes that were alert as a squirrel’s. Emotionally, she remained as innocent as she had been in her all-girls secondary school, where hugging and holding hands were everyday occurrences no one batted an eyelid at. Despite her naivety, Yuqing had a sharp mind. She won a scholarship to NUS and excelled in her postgraduate diploma in education. She also had a way of speaking and being that put people at ease and commanded respect at the same time. If her PGDE classmates had to vote for the one most likely to climb the ranks and become principal one day, it would have been her.

Yuqing was a good teacher — many of her colleagues would attest to that without envy or resentment. She was patient, attentive and kind. She looked out for students who didn’t speak up in class and made sure to call on them. She looked out for those who sat alone during recess and took care to chat with them. She was the sort of teacher who actually cared about their students and not just the job. Perhaps that was why, when Lixia had been absent from school for two days due to a fever, Yuqing left a packet of orange-flavored vitamin C gummies on her desk along with a note saying, “Get well soon and stay healthy!” In the bottom right-hand corner of the note, she pasted a teddy bear sticker and signed off with two names, the one that students called her and, as a personal touch, her Chinese name: 玉清, meaning “jade” and “clean”. She had not given such gifts to other students who had been ill, but she reasoned that they had their parents and friends to care for them. With Lixia, it was different. Someone had to make up for the absence of her family and the ostracism by her peers, so Yuqing took it upon herself to do so.

When Lixia next submitted her journal, the entry was a letter addressed to Yuqing, thanking her shyly for the sweets. She wrote that, for the first time, she looked forward to going to school, and of all the classes, her favorite was English because it made her feel a little less alone. At the end of the entry, she drew a figure of a girl with a sun in her chest, its rays extending beyond the outline of her body. What Lixia did not include in her entry was how, during English class, she would gaze at Yuqing standing at the front of the classroom, luminous and bright-eyed, speaking to the class in her clear, unaffected voice, and how she would think of the two characters of her Chinese name that were like a secret only the two of them shared.

Yuqing and Lixia began a weekly exchange of messages — Lixia in her journal, and Yuqing on pastel-colored notepaper, sometimes with packets of snacks or drinks that she would leave on Lixia’s desk when the classroom was empty during recess. If someone had read the notes by chance, they would not have guessed from the contents the eleven-year age gap between the two. The messages, at first tentative in their affection then growing in confidence, were adolescent in subject and tone, speaking of homework and tests and reminding each other to smile and be happy (in capital letters). They were sprinkled with hand-drawn smiley faces and hearts, and giddy with exclamation marks. Lixia saved all these notes deep in a drawer under her T-shirts. Each time she added to the bundle she felt she was adding another layer to her life, as if building a papier-mâché bowl. Her existence was no longer thin and insubstantial but growing in volume and heft. At night, with the door to her room closed, she would lay the notes out on her bed in chronological order and re-read them, luxuriating in the doting words, trying to divine meanings in them she might have missed.

In the week before the June holidays, Lixia wrote that she missed going to the cinema. The last time she had been there was years ago with her maternal grandparents, both of whom had since passed away. When she offered up that piece of information, it wasn’t without an inkling of what might result. It wasn’t entirely calculated, for the idea had only crossed her mind when a movie trailer appeared on television as she prepared to work on her journal. But she saw the opportunity and took small, halting steps towards it. Though Lixia was only thirteen and a timid child by all appearances, she had grasped Yuqing’s desire to please her, to compensate for what was lacking in her life, and she was hungry for what that might bring. She had perceived that even in the early days of the journal, and had made an effort to write what she thought would draw Yuqing’s attention to herself. Still, when Yuqing asked if she would like to watch a movie together, it came almost as a surprise. A shiver went through her as she read and re-read the words, not quite believing her eyes.

On the second day of the school holidays, Yuqing and Lixia met at a cinema in Clementi, near where they both lived. When Lixia arrived, Yuqing was already there, waiting near the snack counter. They waved and laughed, blood rushing to their cheeks as they saw each other looking so different — Lixia in a pink T-shirt and jeans instead of her beige uniform, and Yuqing in a white blouse and denim skirt, unlike the collared shirt and culottes she usually wore to work. Lixia thought her teacher looked beautiful, even ethereal. To calm herself, she took a deep breath, letting the burnt butter smell from the popcorn machine fill her lungs.

“Let’s get some popcorn to share,” said Yuqing, reaching for her purse, as if reading her mind.

With the popcorn acquired — the carton the size of Lixia’s head — they made their way into the theatre. The hall was dark and it was like moving through thick black mesh. As it was a morning screening, the theatre was mostly empty, with only a scattering of parents and children. When they found their places, Lixia sank into the deep, plush seat. The air was gloriously cold, an exquisite contrast to the stifling heat outside. She let out a small sigh of happiness.

“Popcorn?” Yuqing asked, offering her the carton.

Lixia took a piece. It tasted like salty styrofoam but she could not stop reaching for it even after the movie began. There was something pleasing about the way the crispy puffs squeaked and collapsed between her teeth. Sometimes when she reached for the popcorn at the same time as Yuqing, their fingers would graze each other — just for a split second, the contact so brief and light it could have almost not happened. All that — the darkened theatre, the delicious cold, the textural delight of popcorn, the occasional brush of skin — came together to make the movie, Big Hero 6, the most intense experience of Lixia’s life thus far. All her senses were heightened, and they in turn amplified the emotions that ran through her during the movie. Her eyes grew large when watching the underground robot fights and her brow furrowed when the protagonist’s brother died in a fiery explosion.

At the climax, when the robot was about to sacrifice itself for the teenage protagonist, she was in tears. Her breath was juddering, and every now and then her body would quake as a sob shot through it. Yuqing looked over, handed Lixia a tissue and placed a hand over hers on the armrest to comfort her. At that instant, Lixia held her breath. The warmth of Yuqing’s palm was startling. Though Lixia’s body was still shaking, her attention was no longer on the movie. All she could think of was the sensation of their skin making contact, the intoxicating heat of their hands pressed against each other. For a while Lixia kept very still, afraid of any movement that might shift the configuration of their bodies. Then, slowly, her thumb crept up and curled over the back of Yuqing’s hand. The skin there was soft and supple. It took all her willpower to resist stroking it. Yuqing almost turned towards her in surprise, but something held her in place. There was a flutter in her stomach as she held the small palm and thin fingers in her hand. She had the sensation of being entrusted with something fragile and precious, like a sunbird’s egg or the wing of a chick. Though the two of them did not speak and their eyes were trained on the large screen in front, some kind of understanding was communicated between them. Yuqing kept her hand on Lixia’s, and Lixia did not move hers away. They remained like that till the credits began rolling, and as they walked out, they were holding hands.

The following week, they caught another movie together. When it began, they reached for each other’s hands at the same time, and by the end of the movie they were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, with the armrest between their seats raised. For someone so intelligent it was strange that Yuqing did not see her actions as a clear breach of the code of conduct for teachers. But her mind, that slippery thing, reasoned that it was the school holidays and the outings had taken outside the school compound, so none of the professional guidelines applied. She was simply watching movies with a friend, and what was wrong with that? By the time the June holidays ended, they had met thrice at the cinema, followed by lunch at a fast food restaurant.

It was during their third lunch together that Lixia hinted at the idea of going to her home. While Yuqing was scanning the crowded restaurant for a table, Lixia volunteered the information that her parents would only be home after 7 pm and the flat wasn’t very far. If they couldn’t get a seat, perhaps they could get the food to take away. Yuqing turned to look at Lixia without responding at first. Her instinct was to say they should continue waiting and a table would be available soon, but there was no good reason to decline Lixia’s invitation. Lixia must be getting hungry and having lunch at her place was not so different from having it at the restaurant. Her voice barely audible over the din of screaming children and staff shouting orders, Yuqing said, “Good idea. Let’s do that.”

The flat where Lixia lived was in an aging condominium a short walk from the bus stop. Three out of four of the lifts were out of order and the one they took rattled as it made its ascent. It was with some relief that Yuqing stepped out. But when she entered the flat, she stopped in her tracks, taken aback by how bare and shabby it was. It made her think of an old, yellowing photograph. It was so unlike her home, which she shared with her parents, with bookshelves packed to the brim, racks of her father’s vinyl records, watercolor paintings on the wall, and an upright piano on which were perched framed photographs of Yuqing and her parents. Though it was filled with so many things, there was a design to it, intention behind every object. Here, in contrast, there were old newspapers dating back to the previous month on the sofa, a flat-screen television gathering dust, and bills and other official letters scattered across the chipped veneer of the dining table.

“Welcome,” said Lixia, kicking off her shoes and dropping her bag on the floor. “That’s my room,” she said, indicating with a diffident wave of her hand a doorway at the end of the corridor.

With some trepidation, Yuqing looked inside and was relieved to see that though it too was in a mild state of disarray, there were signs of it being furnished for and lived in by a teenage girl. The curtains were a faded yellow with small green flowers, and on the pale pink bedsheet was a single stuffed dog with greying fur. On the desk was a computer covered with cartoon stickers. Blu-tacked on the wall was a newspaper cutout of an advertisement for the movie Big Hero 6, the first movie they had watched together.

“So this is where my sweet pea lives,” Yuqing said. Though she had used the nickname in her messages before, it was the first time she had said it out loud. At the sound of the words, Lixia’s heart swelled.

“Do you want to eat now?” Lixia asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She was unused to playing host, never having had friends close enough to invite over. She was nervous too for another reason. When she had suggested the two of them come to her home, she had no idea what they would do there. Her imagination did not stretch that far. She only longed for her beloved teacher in the confines of the flat with her, the two of them alone with the door shut behind them. And now, here they were.

Yuqing looked around the bare flat, suppressing the urge to flee. Seeing Lixia in her home, with its mismatched furniture, bare bulbs and faded, splotchy walls, was too much, too much. It was like catching someone with their pants down or spotting a scrap of food in their teeth. She was out of place, or Lixia was. Neither of them belonged here. They belonged in their modern, freshly painted school with its cheery slogans and colorful murals. They belonged in the cool dark cinema with its identical maroon velvet seats and bright flashing images on the screen.

“Yes, let’s have lunch,” Yuqing said, setting down the brown paper bags containing their burgers and fries, thinking that after an hour she would make an excuse to leave.

But after an hour they were sprawled on Lixia’s bed, giggling at funny animal videos on Yuqing’s mobile phone. When there was one they particularly enjoyed, like the one of a miniature turtle speeding across a room on a skateboard, they played it over and over again. Lixia leaned her head against Yuqing’s arm, so whenever she laughed, Yuqing could feel the vibrations moving through her own body. After some time, they switched to music videos and sang along to Lily Allen and Katy Perry, holding up their fists like microphones. Lixia was shy at first, mumbling the lyrics, but soon she was throwing her head back and belting out, as far as her weedy voice would allow, “Baby, you’re a firework” slightly off-tune. Finally, in the muggy heat of the late afternoon, they lay down without a thought and cuddled. They had spent almost the entire day together and they were now tired. This was the natural conclusion to their day.

“You’re as huggable as my bolster,” Yuqing said with a squeeze. As she was taller, they lay not quite face to face, but with the top of Lixia’s head level with the tip of Yuqing’s nose.

Lixia felt her limbs and torso relaxing. She was sinking into the mattress as if it were quicksand. Her parents were not believers in affection, physical or otherwise, so the sensation of Yuqing’s soft, warm body against hers was an entirely new and pleasurable experience. Her fingertips on the waistband of Yuqing’s denim skirt, the coarse fabric a stark contrast to the fine, delicate skin that must lie below, Lixia whispered, “This feels so nice.”

“I know. We’re like puppies and kittens snuggling,” Yuqing replied, hugging her tighter. At the back of her mind was a finger admonishing her about the boundaries teachers were supposed to maintain with students, but that was work and she was not at work now. She was not a teacher managing a classroom full of students, pretending she was much older and knew much more than them. She was a twenty-four-year-old enjoying her free time, which was hers to spend as she liked. That finger at the back of her mind continued to wag but she closed her eyes, inhaled the mushroomy scent from Lixia’s sweat-moistened scalp and willed it away.

The outings to the cinema and the afternoons at Lixia’s home did not end when Yuqing acquired a boyfriend in the following months, an ex-classmate who had held a torch for her since junior college. They had reunited at a class gathering and he, encouraged by her friendliness and questions about his job at a bank, had finally mustered up the courage to ask her out. Curious and flattered, Yuqing had said yes. This was her first taste of dating, of being presented with flowers and invited to dinner at dimly lit restaurants, and she found the experience exhilarating and wholly agreeable. The conversation faltered at times when she didn’t quite understand what he said about investment and financial planning or when he misunderstood what she meant when she spoke about her work, but that was all part of getting to know someone. When they kissed, Yuqing closed her eyes and waited for the rapture that would surely come. Instead, she couldn’t stop thinking of abalones and mushrooms, plump and slimy. But perhaps it was something that took practice.

The first time Yuqing mentioned her boyfriend to Lixia, they were cuddling in the latter’s bed after school, as was their custom. It was another hot, still afternoon, the fan barely stirring a breeze, and the sodden air smelled like day-old rice. She made a passing remark about having to meet him in the evening, her tone light and casual as if she were talking about the weather. But at the word “boyfriend” Lixia felt as if her heart had stopped, then it thudded furiously, like the time she’d walked out of a shop with a ballpoint pen without paying for it. She nodded a few times in shock and did not say anything. Afterwards, when Yuqing had left, she took a penknife and ran it down the inside of her wrist, savoring the pain even as she feared it. This was her first time doing so, and though the blade scratched the skin, it did not draw blood.

Yuqing’s relationship with her boyfriend continued. As the months went on, it was marked by frequent arguments: he thought she worked too much and she was frustrated with his stubbornness about the most trivial things, even about where to have dinner. Each time they fought, Yuqing would cry and confide in Lixia in the privacy of her room, relating word for word what her boyfriend had said. Each time, Lixia would listen and offer reassurance, always taking Yuqing’s side. To which Yuqing would say, “You’re my soulmate. You’re the one who understands me best.” She meant those words as she said them. With Lixia she never had to explain herself; they had such a deep, natural connection they had argued not once; there was no one else she would rather be with. On occasion Yuqing wondered what her boyfriend or any of her friends would say if they knew she considered a teenager eleven years her junior her soulmate, but she never followed that train of thought for very long. As for what they would say if they knew of all the time she spent with Lixia, her mind never wandered into that territory.

Despite the jealousy that grated at her insides, Lixia felt a sort of superiority over Yuqing’s boyfriend. She knew all his faults and failings. In her imagination he resembled her father: a pasty man with his mouth perpetually half-open, making bleating sounds that not even her squat, brash mother took seriously. Though Lixia did not enjoy listening to Yuqing talk about her boyfriend, she relished the ammunition the complaints provided her with. In her mind she kept a tally of points. Every time Yuqing was upset because of him, she deducted a point from his score; every time Yuqing told her she was her soulmate, she added a point to her own. She was far and away in the lead.

Besides, what mattered most was that Yuqing continued to spend time with her – at the cinema, at her home. When they were apart, they texted each other, sometimes late into the night. Lixia slept with her phone clutched to her chest, ready to respond when a message came.

“I wish I were there to hug you now.”

“Hug your bolster and imagine it’s me.”

“It doesn’t smell like you.”

Now and then there appeared in the news cases of teachers being jailed for having inappropriate relationships with students, and a small chill would grip Yuqing. It crossed her mind that the after-school meetings with Lixia should stop, but she told herself their relationship was different. What she felt for Lixia was as pure as the love for one’s child or younger sister. There was nothing sexual or sordid about it. All they did was hug and hold hands, nothing she had not done with her friends in secondary school. If she decided to stop meeting Lixia now, that would mean there had been something improper about their relationship all along. Her mind could not accept that and so waved it away.

But with her developing pubescent body, Lixia was increasingly aware of the soft mounds on Yuqing’s chest that pressed against her body when they hugged. She had a yearning for Yuqing to reach out and touch hers, though their hands and mouths never ventured anywhere they shouldn’t. In school Lixia would keep her eyes down on her books so her face wouldn’t burn when she looked straight at Yuqing, but since her eyes had always been downcast no one noticed anything different. At night Lixia would think about Yuqing kissing her boyfriend on the mouth, and she would run her lips against the back of her hand, wondering what it felt like to be kissed. There were many boys in her class she could have used as a stand-in for that imaginary kisser —Renjie, who was tall, tanned and on the school soccer team, or Aldric, the prefect boy whose floppy fringe and thin-rimmed glasses had captured the hearts of dozens of girls — but there was just one person in her mind.

Only once did Lixia show any sign of hostility towards Yuqing’s boyfriend. One day, after Yuqing had recounted another of their arguments, she asked, “So why are you still with him?” The question came out in a rush, her usually timid voice impatient, almost rude.

Almost immediately Yuqing replied, “He’s kind. He’s funny. My parents like him. He loves me.” Then she sighed, as if all that were a burden she had no choice but to bear.

It was no surprise when Yuqing’s boyfriend popped the question over dinner. They had been discussing marriage and applying for a flat for some time. What surprised Yuqing was the lack of emotion she felt, sitting there in one of her favorite Italian restaurants, watching him slide the ring onto her finger over a basket of fried calamari. It was nothing like what her friends had expressed when announcing their engagements, with tears and declarations of joy. She was perfectly calm, as if he had suggested getting a flu shot. But perhaps that was how things were after more than two years of dating; the excitement faded and there was simply the practical and necessary step of marriage left to take. Not once did she consider saying no or breaking off the engagement. She was on an escalator that would lead to buying a flat, living together and starting a family, and there was no getting off.

When Yuqing revealed her impending wedding to Lixia, the two of them were in the kitchen at the latter’s home, having sultana biscuits and soy milk. Lixia was in Secondary 4 now, with her O levels eight months away. After having had different form teachers for the past two years, she was by chance in Yuqing’s form class again. Though there was still something mouse-like about Lixia, there was also a brooding look that settled like a dark film over her pale face. Upon hearing Yuqing’s words, Lixia opened her mouth but did not protest. Thoughts rushed through her mind, but her head was churning too violently for her to form words. In her confusion, her mouth unsure whether she was going to speak or chew, she bit down on her tongue by mistake. There was a sharp pain, and she tasted the salty blood mingled with the sweet mush of biscuits and raisins. Still, she didn’t speak. Afterwards, when they were lying down, Lixia did not curl up against Yuqing as usual and she shed a few tears. When asked what was wrong, she blamed it on period cramps and let Yuqing stroke her hair. In the next few months, they continued to meet.

The entire class of 4H was invited to the wedding, which was to take place in the first week of the June holidays. Most of them accepted out of affection for their teacher, but also because they were curious. Not just about this adult ritual they had yet to be initiated into or the interior of the fancy hotel they did not have the means to access, but also what their teacher was like outside school and, more important, whom her chosen life partner was. Lixia, too, had her own reasons for attending. She had watched enough television shows to know that at every wedding the person officiating the ceremony would enquire if anyone knew of any impediment to the union. In the lead-up to the event, even that very evening as she walked from the bus stop by the river to the hotel in her only dress, she had fantasies of standing up with her arm raised when that question was asked, saying she did, she knew. The ceremony would jolt to a stop and everyone’s eyes would be on her. There, her fantasies were cut off because she did not know what she would say. How would she describe the relationship between Yuqing and herself? How would she say they were practically dating though they never put a label on it? She also could not decide on Yuqing’s reaction, whether there would be unspoken gratitude and relief at being released from that bond, or denials and embarrassment. She would have to find out.

But as Lixia sat through the wedding, waiting, there arose no such opportunity. The two emcees pranced on stage, prattling on about the bridal couple during their school days and the groom’s crush that was obvious to everyone but Yuqing. When the couple entered the ballroom with the spotlight on them, Yuqing in a long white gown that left her neck and shoulders bare, the students cheered and stamped as if it were a sporting event. The groom was nothing like what Lixia had imagined. He had a pleasant, boyish face and in his light grey suit was what some might call handsome. She recalled all the things Yuqing had said about him and tossed him a look of contempt that was lost in the dark. Then there were the customary speeches, in which the bride and groom thanked their family and friends, followed by a series of toasts that Lixia forced herself to stand up for. But she did not utter a sound. She did not even open her mouth. Then the night was over, and it was time to leave.

For the next two weeks Lixia heard nothing from Yuqing, who was on her honeymoon with her husband in Paris. Lixia sent a text asking her how the trip was going but Yuqing’s reply only came several days later, after she had returned. On the surface there was nothing wrong with the reply – it was friendly and answered her question and included a photo of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night – but there was also no attempt to continue the conversation. There was no follow-up question to ask how Lixia was doing, no suggestion that they meet up before the June holidays ended. Though Lixia had signed off with “Your sweet pea,” Yuqing did not use it in her reply as she would have in the past. After Lixia read the message, she threw her phone on her pillow, flung herself facedown on her bed and wept silently.

Yuqing did not slip her usual weekly note to Lixia when school restarted. In class, she spoke to Lixia as she would with any other student, in a caring but professional tone. On her honeymoon, when she had slept with her husband for the first time, it finally sank in that what she had been doing with Lixia was not quite right. Lying in the hotel bed next to him, she recalled her intimacy with Lixia with guilt — though whether that was directed at Lixia or her husband, it was unclear — and resolved there and then to put a stop to it.

When Yuqing looked at Lixia now there was no hint in her eyes that she remembered the messages they had exchanged or their time together outside school. Lixia, on the other hand, shot Yuqing pleading looks, though she did not dare speak to her in front of the others. A few times, Lixia texted Yuqing, asking if they could meet again soon, and the reply would come, always in a courteous tone, putting off the meeting for one reason or another: she was moving into her new place, she was busy with work, her mother was ill. Often when Lixia was meant to be studying she would stare at her phone, waiting for it to buzz, but it never did. When it was too much to bear, she would repeatedly scratch her wrist with her penknife until small specks of blood appeared.

Finally, she texted Yuqing: “Can we meet? I need to talk to you and understand what happened between us. The O levels are coming but I can’t concentrate. My head is a mess. All I ask is one hour. That’s nothing compared to the time we’ve spent together.”

There was no response over the next three days though Lixia saw Yuqing in school, with her usual bright smile for the whole class. That Friday afternoon, after getting home, Lixia sat down in front of her computer and with trembling hands began an email to the principal. She laid out the relationship between Yuqing and herself and said she simply wanted to understand what had happened. She attached photographs of the notes Yuqing had sent her, screenshots of their late-night messages and a picture they had taken before a movie, their faces pressed together in the dim light of the cinema. Lixia hovered the cursor over the Send button but could not make herself click on it. The principal was a youngish man with an ironic smile and detached air, and the last thing she wanted was to be summoned to his office to explain herself.

Lixia closed her eyes and rubbed her face. Her hands were still shaking. Her head was heavy with pent-up tears and resentment. She got up and walked unsteadily to the window. There were no iron grilles and the glass panes opened out on a five-story drop. If she stood on a chair, she could tip herself over the windowsill quite easily. Lixia’s eyes followed the drop to the concrete pavement and road, imagining her skull smashing like a watermelon, its contents spilling like raw mince. It would hurt for a while, but the pain would soon stop. There would be nothing more to endure after that. She peered down again at the trees, shrubs and white markings on the road and felt her stomach clench in fear. Just then there was a thick rustling sound, and she saw that it was the leaves of trees being tossed about by the wind. She took a deep breath, inhaling the moist, faintly metallic air. From her sixteen years of existence, she knew it meant a storm was coming, and the rustling sound would soon transform into the rapid staccato of raindrops. Dozens of yellow leaves fluttered free above the trees, and she watched transfixed as they glided and spun with the currents like butterflies. From a distance came the solid, rhythmic thwack of a tennis ball and the squeak of shoes on the court. This was the world she lived in, in all its astonishing, intricate beauty. This was the world she was about to give up for one person’s indifference. Lixia’s face contorted and her body heaved as she sobbed.

Suddenly she was overcome with exhaustion. She stepped back and collapsed sideways on the mattress. For once she did not recall the times she had shared her bed and with whom. She pulled her knees and arms to her chest and let herself be carried away into the unconsciousness she desired. The storm came, the drops of rain pounding the window like tiny battering rams. She was oblivious to it. She sank into a deep, black sleep. She did not dream. Her mind was a darkened movie theatre or a blackboard washed clean.

When Lixia woke it was dark except for a thin rhombus of light from the living room. Mingled with the drone of the fan were the jagged roar of traffic and the low, familiar voices of her parents. She wasn’t sure how long she had slept, whether for a few hours or more than a day. But it didn’t matter. She felt fresh, hollowed out, as if she had been reborn. She went to the computer. On the screen was the draft of the email she had written what seemed like years ago. Without thinking or hesitating, she deleted it. In the same way, she got rid of the messages on her phone and scrunched up the notes in her drawer. She no longer needed them to bolster her life. She was already someone with a past.

When she went into the kitchen with the ball of notes, her parents were sitting there having economy rice.

“Lixia, awake already,” her father said.

“Here, your dinner. We didn’t want to wake you up,” her mother said, removing a styrofoam box from a plastic bag.

For the first time Lixia noticed the pinkish crescent of her father’s scalp through his thinning hair, naked and vulnerable as a newborn rabbit. She saw the dark red indentations on the sides of her mother’s nose where her glasses had pressed down on the skin. She nodded. “I just need to throw something away first.”

And so she tucked those three to four years away, folded them up like a note and dropped them behind a cupboard. She made no further attempts to contact Yuqing and in school she averted her eyes so that she met no one’s gaze. The brooding look on her face deepened and a small groove developed at the center of her brow, making her look several years older than she was. If a classmate mocked or spoke over her, she remained silent but there would be an unsettling flicker in her eyes that made them stop. Her classmates soon learnt to give her a wide berth, not out of disdain but unease. What saved Lixia from hardness was what had saved her that Friday afternoon: her capacity for observing the minutiae of the world and reveling in them. A shopping trolley rattled by at the supermarket and she heard rain pattering on a zinc roof. She walked down a pavement and saw a pigeon trying to hatch the earth.

After finishing her O levels, Lixia entered polytechnic to pursue a diploma in digital media and threw herself into making and editing videos. There she met a sweet, quiet girl with long, curly hair, and they were happy together for three years before separating. This time the breakup was mutual. They met at a cafe to talk for an hour before parting as friends. It would be several more years before Lixia met the woman she would spend her life with and they would marry in a small ceremony in Chiang Mai, witnessed by two friends.

Yuqing went on with her life and for some time her career would follow the expected trajectory. The year after her wedding she was posted to ministry headquarters, then became head of department at a prominent girls’ school, followed by a promotion to vice-principal. She would hold that position for two years before making a request for a year of unpaid leave. The stated reason was her separation from her husband, but three months before that she had been accused by a member of staff of giving preferential treatment to a married female teacher. That incident left Yuqing a different person. On more than one occasion she lost her composure, snapping at colleagues in meetings and once walking out of a session with the principal when he raised the matter. When she returned to work, she was posted to a backend role in headquarters where she would remain.

But on this night, Yuqing was still head of department, still married. Though hairline cracks had appeared in the marriage, with arguments increasing in frequency, divorce had yet to be thrown up as an option. She was in bed reading an article for work when her husband climbed in next to her. He lay on his side, tipped his face up to watch her and caressed her knees, a signal that there were other activities on his mind. Yuqing put down her tablet and slid into bed. She knew what he meant. When he began kissing her, she could still give herself up to the moment, her breath growing ragged. But then his mouth moved downwards, nibbling and gnawing, prodding and pressing. The discomfort forced Yuqing back into her body and she lay there aware of every movement of his lips, tongue and teeth. More than that, she was acutely conscious of what would come next: the dreaded act of penetration, as terrible as it sounded – a piercing, a puncture, a stabbing pain for which she would have to brace herself. And then there would be the tedious rocking back and forth, monotonous as the ticking of a metronome.

Yuqing, ever the diligent, competent schoolgirl, responded with sufficient passion that her husband did not notice anything unusual. She ran her hands over his back and let him continue, not hurrying him to his conclusion. But at times she drifted into a daydream and fell motionless. Without thinking of Lixia, she remembered the feeling of sinking into a mattress next to someone without expectation, the relief of finally being able to let down her guard and be at ease with a warm breathing body by her side. She thought of arms around her waist, fingers on her cheeks, the mushroomy smell of unwashed hair. No wet, sticky appendages, just dry, soft skin. No pain or drudgery, just warmth and affection. And still she did not understand what it meant, or perhaps did not wish to and never would.