Wondering about my life

Rain hit the window of Chen's dorm, bruising the sky purple. He sat cross-legged on his bed, his laptop glowing in the dark as he tried to finish an essay about "The Weight of Memory." The cursor blinked mockingly. His mother's journal lay open beside him, her words smudged from years of touch: "Grief is love with nowhere to go."

His phone vibrated a call from Miguel. That was weird. Miguel hated the phone.

"Miguel."

Chen's attempt at cool.

Miguel's voice was empty. "Mom lost the house."

The words splintered in Chen's ribcage. He thought about Miguel's house the porch under its own collapse, the refrigerator covered in child photographs, the treehouse that he and Miguel never finished. Gone.

"What are you going to do?"

"Hotel for now."

For a moment Miguel's breath could not get there. "I. I do not know what to do."

Chen had packed clothes into a duffel already. "I'm coming home."

"You don't have to"

"Shut up. I'm coming.

The First Rebellion

The bus ride home dragged on in perpetuity. Chen's friends were waiting at the station-Luna in her track hoodie, Rafi with his neon hair hidden under a beanie, Sophia clutching a thermos. Miguel stood apart, shoulders hunched, a shadow of himself.

"We're not letting you sleep in a motel," Luna said, tossing Miguel her car keys. "You're staying with me."

Miguel shook his head. "I can't"

You're family," Rafi interrupted. "Shut up and eat this." He thrust an oily breakfast sandwich into Miguel's hands.

Chen's throat tightened. This was their language-love masked as annoyance, loyalty packaged in sarcasm.

They spent the day in the park, spread out under the oak tree. Miguel cracked at last, his tears silent and furious. "I hate this," he said. "I hate feeling helpless."

Chen gave him a crane from his pocket. Inside the note was the message: "We're here. Always.

The First Fundraiser

Luna's idea was ridiculous. Brilliant, but ridiculous.

"A charity basketball tournament," she announced at the diner. "Teams pay to play. All proceeds go to Miguel's family."

Rafi nearly spat out his soda. "We're not exactly NBA material."

"Doesn't matter," Luna said. "People will come for the drama."

They made posters in Chen's garage: "Slam Dunk for Shelter!" and played Miguel's old "Bangers Only" mixtape. Jia video-called from her dorm, working on a logo: a cartoon oak tree dunking a basketball.

"You guys are all insane," Miguel said, but his smile was genuine.

The gym was packed. Teachers, classmates, even the grumpy convenience store clerk showed up. Ms. Alina refereed in a tracksuit, her whistle shrill. Rafi's team wore matching neon jerseys ("For visibility!"), and Sophia surprised everyone by sinking three-pointers like a pro.

Chen's team lost spectacularly, but that was beside the point. When Miguel's mom came out onto the court, crying, and hugged the whole team, the crowd went wild.

"We raised enough for first month's rent," Luna whispered, her voice cracking.

Miguel buried his face in Chen's shoulder. "How do I even say thank you?"

"You don't," Chen said. "That's not how this works."

The First Goodbye (Again)

Summer was too short. Chen stood at the bus station, duffel bag heavier with guilt this time.

"Go," Miguel said, pushing him gently. "I'll be fine."

"Do you promise?"

Jia met him on campus, her arms full of paint supplies. "We're redecorating your dorm," she declared.

They stayed up all night, transforming his cinderblock walls into a mural—the oak tree, the park, their faces hidden in the leaves. When they finished, Jia pressed a tiny crane into his palm. "For when it gets quiet."

The First Letter Never Sent

Chen wrote to his mother every night now.

"Dear Mom,

Miguel's mom makes terrible pancakes. You'd hate them. I eat seconds anyway.

Love,

Chen"

Jia kissed somebody. An art student with bad shoes. I don't know why it stings.

Love,

Chen"

"Dear Mom,

I'm afraid I'll forget how you sound.

Love,

Chen"

He never sent those either. Some truths were too delicate for light.

Midterms snapped Chen. He spent three nights pulling all-nighters, subsisting on vending machine chips and malice. When he passed out in the library, his roommate summoned an ambulance.

His father arrived the next morning, still in his work boots. "You're coming home," he said, no room for argument.

Chen slept for fourteen hours straight. When he woke, his dad was cooking congee burnt, but edible.

"I don't know how to do this," Chen admitted, staring at the ceiling.

"Me neither," his father said. "But we'll learn."

Chen didn't go back to school immediately. He worked shifts at Miguel's mom's new café, serving overpriced lattes to tourists. At night, he sat in the park, listening to the oak tree's whispers.

Jia found him there one evening, her hair streaked with blue. "You're not coming back, are you?"

Chen shook his head. "Not yet."

She sat beside him, their shoulders touching. "You don't have to be okay."

"I know," he said. "But I want to try."

Chen returned to school a month later. His dorm mural had faded, but the oak tree still stood guard. He tacked a new photo to the wall—Miguel's mom behind the café counter, laughing.

He sat at his desk and opened up a blank document. He began to write

"The park is smaller than I remember. The oak tree is just a tree. But sometimes, when the light hits just right, I swear I can hear them the ghosts of who we were, laughing."

He titled it "The Weight of Memory" and hit submit

Midterms broke Chen. He pulled three all-nighters, surviving on vending machine chips and spite. When he fainted in the library, his roommate called an ambulance.

His father arrived the next morning, still in his work boots. "You're coming home," he said, no room for argument.

Chen slept for fourteen hours straight. When he woke, his dad was cooking congee burnt, but edible.

"I don't know how to do this," Chen admitted, staring at the ceiling.

"Me neither," his father said. "But we'll learn."

Chen didn't return to campus right away. He worked shifts at Miguel's mom's new café, serving overpriced lattes to tourists. At night, he sat in the park, listening to the oak tree's whispers.

Jia found him there one evening, her hair streaked with blue. "You're not coming back, are you?"

Chen shook his head. "Not yet."

She sat beside him, their shoulders touching. "You don't have to be okay."

"I know," he said. "But I want to try."

Chen lay on the roof of Miguel's motel, the asphalt still warm from the day's heat. The sky was choked with city smog, the stars smudged into oblivion. Miguel sat beside him, picking at the label of a soda bottle.

"Remember when we tried to map constellations?" Miguel said suddenly. "You swore the Big Dipper was a skateboard."

Chen laughed, the sound thready in the thick air. "And you said Orion was holding a burrito."

They fell silent again, the weight of the last few days pushing down. Miguel's voice cracked. "I don't know how to start over."

Chen handed him a crane from his pocket. Inside, he'd written: "You don't have to. Just keep moving.

He pressed it to the faint light of a streetlamp. "When did you become so smart?"

"When you weren't paying attention."

The First Mural

Jia dropped in unexpectedly, her duffel bag daubed with paint. She cornered Chen in the motel parking lot, her eyes alight. "We're not going to let this dump defeat them.

Three days to turn around the crumbling exteriors of this motel. She painted Miguel's mom as some warrior queen. Apron open, like a cape, raised the spatula high, raised like a sword. Chen, of course added in the background: an oak tree with the words "home is where we fight for one another" wrapping in its roots.

Miguel's mom cried. And the motel owner did, attributing it all to the pollen.

It was midnight when they stole Luna's car, Jia behind the wheel with Chen navigation-guy and Rafi in the backseat belting out "Don't Stop Believin." They headed to the edge of town where the smog thinned and stars clawed their way through the darkness.

She laid a blanket across the hood of the car and rested her head on Chen's shoulder. "I used to do this with my dad," she said quietly. "He'd point out satellites and call them 'sky cockroaches.'"

Chen drew his finger along the curve of the Big Dipper, its pattern clearer here. "Do you still talk to him? Like… out loud?"

"Every day," she said. "He doesn't answer. But I think he hears me."

Rafi launched into a story about his first kiss, and the night dissolved into laughter and half-truths. For a few hours, the weight lifted.

It hit Chen during a lecture on postmodernism. The professor's words blurred into static, his chest tightening like a vise. He stumbled into the hall, sliding to the floor, his breaths shallow and frantic.

Eli found him, his philosophy textbooks clattering to the ground. "Hey hey, match me." He pressed Chen's hand to his own chest, inhaling deeply. "In… and out. Like the tide."

Chen focused on the rise and fall, the smell of Eli's lavender laundry detergent. When the world sharpened again, Eli said, "You're okay. You're here."

Chen didn't know how to explain that here felt like drowning.

Jia kissed him on a Tuesday. They were painting over a graffiti tag in the park, her hands steady, his clumsy. She turned suddenly, her lips brushing his cheek, then his mouth.

Chen froze.

She pulled back, paint smudged on her nose. "Was that… okay?"

He nodded, heart hammering. "Yeah. Just… surprised."

She laughed, nervous. "Me too."

They didn't talk about it. But that night, Chen wrote a letter he'd never send:

"Dear Mom,

I think I love her. But love feels like standing on a cliff.

Love,

Chen"

Miguel found Chen at the café, his apron stained with espresso. "You've been avoiding me."

Chen wiped down the counter, avoiding his eyes. "Been busy."

"Bullshit. You're scared."

The words hung between them, sharp and true. Chen's voice broke. "What if I fail? What if I can't fix anything?

Miguel grabbed his shoulders. "You don't have to fix me. Just… be here."

Chen crumpled, tears soaking into Miguel's shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Miguel held him tighter. "We're okay. We're always okay."

The First Sunrise

They climbed the fire escape to the motel roof, Jia's hand warm in Chen's. The sky bled pink and gold, the city waking below them.

"What now?" Jia asked.

Chen thought of his mother's journal, Miguel's laugh, the oak tree's stubborn roots. "We keep going."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Together?"

"Together."

The First Letter Sent

Chen mailed one letter.

"Dear Mom,

I'm not okay. But I'm learning how to be.

Love,

Chen"

He addressed it to the park, the oak tree, the ghosts of who they'd been.

Somewhere, he imagined the wind carrying it, the leaves whispering back.