Two Worlds, One Gaze

Chapter 1: Arrival Without Roots

I used to think arriving somewhere new would feel like something.
Excitement. Fear. A beginning.
It never does.
It feels like disappearing into boxes you packed yourself—then pretending you’re still whole inside them.
That’s what Beijing felt like.
A city I had entered… but never really joined.
Same me. New country. New silence.
Still temporary.
My father didn’t ask how I felt.
He never does.
He just said everything was already arranged at Peking University.
“You’ll stay longer this time.”
I nodded.
I always nod.
Because arguing doesn’t change destinations.
It only changes how quietly you accept them.
My family wasn’t together anymore.
My mother stayed in Addis Ababa, buried in hospital shifts.
My siblings stayed with her.
My father moved across countries like it was normal.
And I—
I followed.
That was my role.
Not daughter.
Not student.
Just someone who packs quietly and leaves without making it dramatic.
     I didn’t unpack.
There was no point pretending I belonged somewhere that hadn’t decided on me yet.
Instead, I left.
No map. No plan. No reason.
Beijing didn’t feel like a movie.
It felt like something alive that didn’t care if I understood it.
Cars rushed.
Voices collided.
Everything belonged—except me.
And somehow, I ended up at Beihai Park.
I didn’t choose it.
I just… arrived.
Like my body knew where peace might hide before my mind could ruin it.
The lake was too still.
Like even the air was holding something back.
People laughed in groups, took pictures, saved moments like they were proof they existed.
I sat alone.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I always end up there anyway.
And that’s when I saw him.
Not approaching.
Not performing.
Just existing at a distance like the world hadn’t fully reached him either.
Black hair falling slightly over his forehead.
White shirt.
Hands resting like time wasn’t something he chased.
I don’t know why I looked at him.
But I did.
And then—
He looked back.
Just for a second.
Enough to shift something I couldn’t name.
And I looked away first.
Of course I did.
                         ***
It should’ve been.
But it wasn’t.
Because in places like universities, coincidence is just repetition wearing a disguise.
I didn’t see him until I hit him.
Books fell everywhere.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
I sighed. “Of course.”
Before I could even bend down—
He already was.
He crouched without hesitation, picking them up carefully like they mattered more than they should.
That was the first thing that confused me.
He handed them back.
Our fingers almost touched.
Almost.
“You should watch where you’re going,” he said.
I looked at him. “You were in my way.”
A pause.
Then—
“You talk too much.”
I blinked.
That should’ve ended it.
Instead—
“And you notice too much,” I said.
Silence.
Not awkward.
Not comfortable.
Something in between that shouldn’t exist.
Then he stood up.
And walked away.
Like I was nothing.
But my chest didn’t agree.

  Library.
Cafeteria.
Hallways I didn’t plan to enter.
He was always there first.
Never loud. Never trying. Just present.
Like a shadow that learned how to stand in light without disappearing.
One day I asked—
“Do you always follow people like this?”
He didn’t even look at me.
“I don’t follow people.”
I frowned. “Then what is this?”
A pause.
Then—
“I leave first.”
That sentence stayed.
Longer than it should have.
Because it didn’t sound like confidence.
It sounded like practice.
Like something repeated until it stopped feeling like a choice.
Amanda noticed before I did.
“You’re looking for him,” she said casually.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
I didn’t argue.
Because I wasn’t sure anymore.
And that uncertainty felt worse than being wrong.
  THEN IT RAINED
Not softly.
Not gently.
Like the sky had something to say and decided to say it all at once.
We ran without speaking.
Only footsteps. Water. Breath.
Beihai Park again.
Of course.
Like the world liked bringing us back to the same place.
We stopped under shelter.
Too close.
Closer than necessary.
I could hear him breathing slower now.
“You always disappear quickly,” I said.
He glanced at me.
“…I leave first.”
But this time—
It didn’t sound strong.
It sounded learned.
A rule he never questioned.
A habit that became identity.
I slipped slightly on the wet ground.
His hand caught my wrist instantly.
Firm.
Fast.
Not gentle.
Not planned.
Instinct.
He didn’t let go.
And I didn’t pull away.
That was the problem.
Because neither of us moved first.
And for the first time—
Neither of us wanted to.