Yet just as quickly as it balloons, the wild longing in my chest deflates.

With a sharp jolt I feel all the way down to my bones, as if I’ve fallen from a great height, I remember who I am, and who I am not. I can’t afford to think so far ahead into the future, to be so frivolous with my plans. I should only be focusing on making enough money to cover my school fees and bills for this year, then next year, then the year after that...

Maybe I was lying just now about why I find Macbeth so sympathetic. Maybe it’s because I understand what it’s like to want things that do not belong to you.

But of course, I don’t tell Mr. Chen any of this.

“I want to get good grades. Graduate. Get a job in whichever field my strengths lie.”

His brows furrow, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Not what you’re passionate about?” he asks delicately.

I lift my chin. “I’m passionate about being good at things.”

There’s a defensive edge in my voice, and Mr. Chen must hear it. He drops the subject.

“Well, all right then. I suppose I should let you go to lunch...”

“Thanks, Mr. Chen.”

But as I turn to leave, he adds, very quietly, “You’re still a kid, you know.”

I falter. “What?”

His eyes are kind, almost sad when he looks at me. “Even if it doesn’t feel that way now, you’re still only a kid.” He shakes his head. “You’re too young to be this...hardened by the world. You should be free to dream. To hope.”

My conversation with Mr. Chen plays over and over again in my head as I make my way over to the cafeteria. Most people have eaten and left already, and only the Chinese cuisine bar is still open, so I grab a tray of rice and braised pork ribs that have already gone cold and nibble at my food half-heartedly, the chopsticks held loose in my hands.

You’re still a kid, you know.

Coming from any other adult, the words would’ve seemed condescending, easy to laugh at and brush off, but I could tell Mr. Chen really meant them. Which is almost worse, somehow. It makes me feel too vulnerable.

Exposed.

It’s like that time I wrote a poem about my family in Year Eight, thinking it was only for an English assignment, but the teacher insisted on reading it aloud to the whole school at assembly, her voice reaching an emotional crescendo as she described the old callouses on Mama’s hands, her own hands rising and falling in exaggerated movements. People approached me about it afterward, kind and gushing and sympathetic, and part of me basked in the positive attention, while the other part—a bigger part—wanted nothing more than to flee.

I guess that’s the thing: I’ve spent my whole life longing to be seen, but I’ve also come to realize that when people look too closely, they inevitably notice the ugly parts too, like how the tiny cracks on a polished vase only become visible under scrutiny. Like Mama’s callouses, hidden from the world until the teacher had to go and read my poem into the microphone, into the silence of the giant, filled auditorium.