“They think they’re in love, as most newlyweds tend to,” Cyrus says with a shrug. “It’ll pass.”

“Or,” I counter, “they could grow old together in a yellow cottage with its own vegetable patch and duck pond.”

This earns me a brief head tilt. “Is that your dream for the future?”

“God, no,” I say. “Ducks scare me. My dream is—”

I stop halfway, reaching for something that’s no longer there. My dream was to become a successful model, to see my face in magazine spreads, to meet the most esteemed designers and walk the most influential runway shows and get invited to the most exclusive parties. Not even because I thought it’d be fun, but just to say I was there. It used to be so simple, so clear-cut.

Now I have no idea. I imagine myself graduating from high school, and then—nothing. It’s like trying to spot a distant shore through ocean fog, or recognizing a stranger’s face from miles away.

“To sleep,” I finish, looking off to the side. Xiyue has already moved on to the neighboring table, where all the elderly aunties take turns pinching her cheeks and showering her with their blessings. “To sleep forever.”

“I believe you’re describing death,” Cyrus says.

“At least it’s attainable.”

He makes a light scoffing sound. “A low bar.”

“Yes, well—” I’m distracted by a sudden, harrowing realization as Xiyue begins walking over to us. “Oh my god.”

“What?” he asks immediately, shifting forward.

“We’re not expected to say anything, are we? To Xiyue, I mean.”

“Of course we are,” he says, looking confused by my panic. “It’s basic etiquette. You don’t need to give a speech—just offer up a few congratulatory words or something.”

“I—I can’t—” I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. My Mandarin skills are limited to simple greetings and common sayings in my household, such as “stop leaving your cups everywhere” and “clean out your wardrobe” and “math requires practice.” None of them are applicable here.

“I know,” one of the kids speaks up from the other side of the table. She looks no older than eight. Her hair is bunched into pigtails that bob around when she grabs another handful of candy. “Zhu nimen xinhun yukuai, zaosheng guizi.”

“What—what does that mean?” I ask, tracking my cousin’s movement out of the corner of my eye.

“It means you wish them a happy marriage, and hope that they start a healthy family soon,” Cyrus explains.

I hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“You can look it up if you don’t believe me,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, thank you so much,” I tell the little girl, both genuinely grateful and devastatingly humbled to be receiving Mandarin help from someone half my size. “And thank you too, I guess,” I say to Cyrus with far less enthusiasm. “So it’s … What was it again?”