“She’s certainly suited for modeling,” my mom says, then catches herself. Remembers once again. It’s hard to describe the emotion on her face. Disappointment? Anger? Resentment? I feel all of it in my throat, and more, an ache I can’t get rid of.

“Let’s just go inside,” I say, walking well ahead of them before either can continue. I could run in five-inch heels, if I wanted to. Every now and then, at my high school friends’ gatherings, they’d ask me to demonstrate it as a party trick, and the response would be overwhelming.

I pick up my pace, my heart beating in sync with the sharp, satisfying clack of my shoes against the marble floor when I step inside.

Even though I’d much rather not be here, I do have to appreciate the venue. Lilies and violet orchids bloom in vivid clusters all the way down the wide corridor, and a six-foot-tall poster of my cousin and her fiancé is perched before the entrance. In the photo, they’re gazing at each other on a balcony, both beaming, their skin near perfect thanks to some combination of the golden-hour light and professional airbrushing. There’s a sign too but it’s written in Chinese characters—the only one I recognize is the Zhang from my own family name.

Judging from the sounds of tinkling laughter and shuffling footsteps and rumbling voices, the wedding must be well underway by now. My heart rate spikes the way it always does before I’m about to enter a crowded room, and I have to consciously steady my breathing. It’s an old trick, picked up and perfected two years ago at two different schools, when the simple act of grabbing a salad from the cafeteria or finding my seat in class was something I had to brace myself for.

Breathe in for four.

Hold.

Out for four.

Good.

You’re good now.

Or I’m supposed to be. But when I walk through the doors, the noise drops away.

It’s like I’m back at my old school again, the very last place I’d ever want to return to.

The stares. The raised brows. The exchanged glances. Even though the people here don’t have a reason to dislike me the way my classmates did, there are still way too many of them, filling up almost every single table in the ballroom. Countless faces turn, assessing me, and I get that pit-in-my-stomach feeling I’ve always hated, this sense that I’m looming over everyone like a dark cloud, a giant in the metaphorical and, at five feet ten, literal sense, unable to blend into any crowd, incapable of fitting into any room. I can only stand here and let them stare as my face grows hot and my fingers go clammy.