Wondering about my life

Morning of Chen's departure, sky like faded denim. Clouds stitch themselves into the horizon, loose threads of some old sweater. He stands on the edge of the park, backpack slung over one shoulder, pulling him toward the earth. Oak tree looms ahead, branches bare and skeletal against the winter sky. Felt like a metaphor he was too tired to unravel.

Luna found him first, her sneakers crunching over frost-tipped grass. She tossed him a paper cup of hot chocolate, steam curling into the cold. "You're late," she said, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

"To my own goodbye party?" Chen smirked, but the joke fell flat.

They sat on the bench where they'd carved their initials freshman year—C + L + M + R + S, a roster of chaos and loyalty. The others arrived in fragments: Miguel, hood pulled low over his face; Rafi, sporting a neon-green beanie; Sophia, clutching a thermos of her dad's bitter coffee. No one mentioned the empty space where Jia should've been.

So," Rafi said, breaking the silence, "who's gonna accidentally burn down the treehouse now?"

"You," everyone chorused.

Luna pulled a Sharpie from her pocket and tagged the bench with a crude drawing of their group stick figures with Rafi's beanie, Luna's scowl, Miguel's slouch. Chen's chest tightened. This was their language, their way of saying we existed here.

Miguel nudged him. "You gonna visit?"

"Every break," Chen promised.

"Even if I flood your dorm with glitter bombs?"

"That's especially then," he said.

They laughed, but the sound was brittle, cracking at the edges.

The Last Night

Chen's bedroom was a carcass of packed boxes, the walls stripped of Jia's mural sketch and Sophia's cranes. Only his mother's journal remained on the nightstand, its pages dog-eared and ink-smudged. He traced her final entry, dated a week before she died:

"Chen stayed up late studying. I pretended to sleep, just to hear him hum. It's the same lullaby I sang him as a baby. He doesn't know I know."

A knock startled him. His father stood in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. "Thought you might want this."

They sat on the floor, backs against the bedframe. His father's calloused hands from years spent working construction had been quivering as he drank. "I, uh… found something." He slid a faded Polaroid from his wallet: Chen's mother, pregnant and glowing, standing in front of the oak tree. "Our first home," she'd written on the back.

"She wanted to name you after that tree," his father said. "Li for strength. Chen for morning.

Chen's throat was burning. "Why didn't you?"

"She said mornings are too quiet. You were… louder,"

They laughed, the sound watery and raw. For the first time, Chen saw his father not as a shadow, but as a man clinging to the echoes of a love that still lived in the cracks.

The Station

The train platform swarmed with unfamiliar faces, voices merged into the din of static. Chen's friends huddled around him as if forming some kind of human shield. Sophia jammed a crumpled crane into his hand. "Open it on the train."

Rafi mock-cried into Luna's shoulder. "Who's going to roast my terrible art now?"

The entire internet," Luna said, pushing him away.

Miguel stepped back, hands buried in his pockets. When Chen swept him into a hug, he mumbled, "Don't turn into one of those college zombies, okay? Stay… you."

The train whistle let out a shrill shriek. Chen pushed onto the platform, his reflection dancing in the window—a ghost between worlds.

As the platform receded, he opened Sophia's crane. Inside, they'd all scribbled notes:

Luna: "Run faster than the a**holes."

Rafi: "Draw something weird for me."

Miguel: "Call. Or I'll tell everyone about the Pikachu incident."

Sophia: "Trig is still the worst. But so is leaving."

Jia: "Paint the world. I'll find you in the colors."

Chen pressed the crane to his chest, the paper warm as a heartbeat.

The Dorm

Chens dorm was a shoebox with cinderblock walls and a window that framed a sliver of sky. He taped Jias mural sketch above his desk, the cranes glowing under fluorescent light. His roommate, a philosophy major named Eli, raised an eyebrow.

"Girlfriend?"

"Friend," Chen said. "The kind that feels like home."

Eli nodded sagely. "Ah. The dangerous ones.

That night, Chen lay awake, the city's pulse thrumming through the walls. He opened his mother's journal to a blank page and wrote:

"Dear Mom,

The quiet is louder here. But I'm trying to hum.

Love,

Chen"

The Call

Jia's voice crackled through the phone, tinny and distant. "How's the zombie life?"

Chen smiled, slouching out his window. The city spread out below, a galaxy of disorder. "I found a park. Smaller than ours, but… there's a tree."

"Of course there is."

They spoke long into the dawn, words weaving a bridge between the miles. When sun broke, Chen put up a new crane on his wall—a sunrise, in Jia's pink.

Winter vacation was snow, the sharp pang of familiarity. Friends mobbed him at the station, hugging too tightly, laughing too loudly. The park was frosted white; oak tree was garbed in winter like a diadem.

Under it, Jia stood: pink hair in monochrome bright. She carried a can of spray paint. "Ready?

They spent the afternoon desecrating the slide with their story—sprays of paint, in-jokes, a constellation of cranes. When they were done, Chen took a step back, and breath fogged the air. "It's perfect."

"It's temporary," Jia said.

"Aren't we all?"

She laughed, and for one moment, the world felt small enough to hold.

The Letter

On New Year's Eve, Chen put a letter into the time capsule beneath the oak.

"To whoever finds this:

We were here. We loved. We left.

But we're still becoming.

–Chen"

He walked off into the snowy silence, but the park itself hummed the quiet truth of endless beginnings.

The First Night Away

Chen's dorm room was a stranger's house—too quiet, too sterile, too empty. The hum of the radiator was a poor substitute for the familiar creaks of his childhood home. He lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

His phone buzzed.

Jia: *First night survival checklist:

Cry dramatically into a pillow.

Eat something terrible from the vending machine.

Call me if you screw up steps 1 and 2.*

Chen smiled despite himself. He snagged a bag of stale pretzels from the vending machine down the hall and video-called her. Her face filled the screen, her pink hair tied up in a messy bun, paint smudged on her cheek.

"You look terrible," she said, grinning.

"Thanks. You too."

They talked for hours—about his roommate's obsession with Nietzsche, her aunt's terrible cooking, the mural she was working on. When the conversation lulled, Jia said softly, "I miss the park."

"Me too," Chen admitted. "But… it's still there. We're just not."

Jia's smile was sad but steady. "We'll find new trees."

The First Week

College was a whirlwind of syllabi, awkward introductions, and cafeteria food that tasted like regret. Chen's classes fell into exhilarating and exhausting camps. His creative writing professor, Dr. Patel, paced the room with eerily quotable lines from obscure poets, her voice a soothing melody that made his pen race across the page.

But it was the late nights that really got to him. The dorm was never really quiet. There was always some laughter, some argument, some music blaring down the hall. Chen wandered the campus at odd hours, the city lights flickering like distant stars.

One night, while stumbling through the alleys behind the library, he stumbled upon a small courtyard. In its center stands one oak at its center, whose branches shoot up towards the sky. Chen sat under it. The tree bark is hard against his back, and he pulled out his mother's journal.

"Dear Mom,

I found a tree. It's not ours, but… it feels like a start.

Love,

Chen"

The First Visit Home

Snow piled on top, memories with. Chen's friends were already there, at the station, all of them holding him too hard, laughing too loud. The park was a blanket of white and the oak wore winter as a crown.

Jia was under that tree, her hair pink, piercing through greys. Spray can dangled at her side, hand holding the grip. "Ready?

They spent the entire afternoon defacing the slide with their story-splatters of color, inside jokes, a constellation of cranes. When they finished, Chen stepped back and breathed, fogging the air. "It's perfect."

"It's temporary," Jia corrected.

"Aren't we all?" She laughed, and for a moment, the world felt small enough to hold.

The First Fight

Not everything was perfect. Chen and Miguel got into their first real fight over break. It started with a stupid argument about pizza toppings and escalated into something deeper, something raw.

"You've changed," Miguel accused, his voice sharp. "You're all… college now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Chen shot back.

"It means you're too busy for us. For me."

Those words hurt him, for he knew they were true. Chen had been absent-minded, obsessed by his new life, new friends, and new self. He did not mean to neglect Miguel, but the distance felt like a huge canyon.

They said nothing throughout the week.

The First Atonement

It was New Year's Eve, and Chen came across Miguel on the bench by the park, gazing at the oak tree.

"Sorry," Chen said, sitting next to him.

Miguel didn't glance at him. "For what?"

"For. being an idiot. For not calling. For forgetting how much you matter."

Miguel sighed and pushed his hair out of his face. "Sorry too. I just. I don't know how to do this without you."

Chen handed him a folded crane. Inside, he'd written: "You're my brother. Always."

Miguel grinned, small but real. "You're still an idiot."

"Yeah. But I'm your idiot."

They laughed, the sound echoing through the empty park.

The First Letter Back

Chen returned to campus with a stack of letters from his friends. He pinned them above his desk, a mosaic of their voices:

Luna: "Run faster than the a**holes."

Rafi: "Draw something weird for me."

Miguel: "Call. Or I'll tell everyone about the Pikachu incident."

Sophia: "Trig is still the worst. But so is leaving."

Jia: "Paint the world. I'll find you in the colors."

He flipped his mother's journal to a blank page and wrote:

"Dear Mom,

The quiet is louder here. But I'm trying to hum.

Love,

Chen"

The First Step Forward

On the last day of break, Chen stood beneath the oak tree, snowflakes catching in his hair. He slipped a letter into the time capsule buried at its roots.

"To whoever finds this:

We were here. We loved. We left.

But we're still becoming.

–Chen"

He walked away into the snow-softened tread, the hum of the park vibrating with endless beginnings.