He pauses, rubs the back of his head. Forces out a hollow laugh. “Of course, it wasn’t quite as terrible as it must sound. Not at first. Hannah—my older sister—would sneak me snacks and books when my father was busy working, or simply sit outside the door to keep me company... But then her own grades started slipping, and she was sent off to school in America, and it was—it was just me in that room for hours on end...” His voice grows quieter and quieter with every word, until it’s swallowed completely by the rattle of the train and the shrieks of a baby in another compartment.

And I know I should say something at this point. I know. But all that comes out of my mouth is, “Oh my god.”

“Yes.” He shifts position slightly, so I can no longer see his face. Only the pale curve of his neck. “Indeed.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I honestly—I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been...”

I mean this as more than just a phrase. Despite what everyone likes to assume based on my scores and general personality, Mama and Baba have never pressured me to study. If anything, they’re always the ones to tell me to relax, to put the textbook down and watch some TV, go outside more.

And when I was five, Mama made it clear that she only ever wanted two things from me: for me to be a good person, and for me to be happy. That was also why she and Baba decided to sell their car, their old apartment, and use all their savings to send me to Airington, even if they knew I’d resist the idea at first—they hoped to protect me from the intense pressure of the gaokao.

“It’s fine now. Really,” he says, voice rough. “And I wouldn’t be where I am without—”

“No.” Anger cuts through me like a knife: anger at his father, for doing this to him; anger at the universe, for letting it happen; anger at myself, for assuming his competence was rooted in an easy childhood, a painless childhood. “I hate that. I hate when people justify a clearly inhumane process and use it as some kind of model for success just because the results are to their liking—”

“Is that not what you’re doing, though? With Beijing Ghost?”

“I—” I falter, caught off guard not just by the question, but the truth of it. My stomach twists. “I guess you’re right. But the thing is... I don’t know any other way to live.”

Quietly, he says, “I don’t either.”

Then he turns back to me, the space between us narrowing to only a few dangerous inches. His eyes lock on mine, and something else locks into place in my chest. “You’re visible again.”

“Really,” I say, but neither of us move.

We’re sitting close, I realize. Too close.

Not close enough.

I draw in a shaky breath. He smells expensive, like the unopened boxes of designer shoes Chanel keeps piled up in our dorm. But beneath it there’s another scent, something crisp and faintly sweet, like fresh-cut grass in spring or clean sheets warmed by sun.