[Completed]
As choices, rules, timeless deeds, and beginnings attract then push Zhan away between two peaks of bliss, he learns: It's easy to fall, but harder to love. It's one thing to spend a star-aligned winter, but something else to bear the war...
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The exam sprint of the final month and my parents' emotional support in that spectrum in particular render our pretend game easier than it was. Between school and self-study and the general overwhelm of stress didn't leave much room for actual conversations—or arguments—with them, which for the time being, proved to be the best for all three of us.
The transition from being with Yibo daily to settling into a handful of text messages left me feeling starved, missing the sense of simplicity he relaxed me into with each breath I took. But his absence took away the complication of lying to my parents. The solitude of it left me to smother in the exam work in peace that I couldn't figure out if it was good or bad.
I missed him, though.
The scholarship work settles roughly three weeks before the exam. An agent from the Catherine Wu Institute of Music—Mrs. Wu's firm in honor of her mother—traveled all the way to our town to brief me and my parents about the procedure: an application with two essays and an audition tape for the formalities which they grant me a grace period to complete after my exam.
All in all, the exams pass with much less fanfare than I imagined. The first day was a wreck of nerves and doubts and disbelief, the last was as dull as a mock exam.
So, in mid-July, I was a high school graduate killing time on his bed, parents pretending I'm straight when I read a text on his phone from my boyfriend asking out for a well-deserved date.
A movie in the city's cinema and a walk along the river under the sunset later, he tells me, "A year, and I'll be in Shanghai with you," and I find myself in that pleasant simplicity again, future tilting into more of warm hope than stressed plans.
When I go home, the only question my dad asks is, "How old is your violin, again?"
"Um . . . a little more than four years?"
He nods, and I go to my room, confused and internally glad.
The questions stop. So the lying stops. If the truce came as a result of acceptance or negligence, I couldn't know.
But I find the answers the day I drag Yibo into the music shop by the mall.
"You're going to buy a violin?" he asks in front of the shop.
"Nope. I just want to look at the prices to see how much I should save. Mine still work fine."
And then inside, there he is, my father, a few violins spread on the counter and holding another one in a novice grip. His scrutiny runs uncomfortably to me, to Yibo, us as a whole, and he excuses himself to leave the shop and the violins on the counter.
The day after doesn't bring me questions; but directionless, fact-less complaints about how I'll ruin my life when I'm out in Shanghai. It felt like a compliment. When Yibo calls me to check up, in that same warmth of hope, I tell him that it's going to be okay when I leave. But half a second later when the call ends, the grip pit in my skull solidifies, and I realize how much it sounded like . . . Beijing. I fall sick that night. And I lose the capacity to think about it any longer.
