Torou and I finally went to our movie. He took me to Ximending, perhaps the closest in terms of bustling city life that Taipei had to offer. It was the largest shopping district and home to several movie theaters, including a Peking opera house my parents enjoyed. I cannot recall the name of the film we saw. I even asked Torou, just now, and all he could remember was the way the movie stopped in the middle for some Nationalist propaganda. Nothing happened between us during the movie or afterward. He told me he had a test the next week and so he would not be stopping by the pencil company.

“I thought you studied well there.” I was disappointed. I told myself it was not because of any soft feelings for him, only that I longed for the minimal amount of comfort he provided.

He laughed.

“I never said that. I always end up too distracted by you.”

“By me? I’m just reading.”

“It’s one of the only times you look happy.”

Only through remembering the things he used to say to me can I recall the depth of my unhappiness during those years. A shadow of what you must have felt when you came to live with us in Shanghai, though maybe I flatter myself by believing my being there helped you adjust. In Taiwan, I had no one, and I shut out even those who wanted to be close to me.

“I think you should see that boy more,” Mother told me after a few days passed with no visit from Torou. “The Tsai son.”

“He has to study.”

“Oh, Yun.” Mother looked at me, rubbing her hands together to stay warm, her eyes lined with her weariness. “You have not been the same since we left Shanghai. You used to love life. You wanted everything from it. Remember the qipaos you used to admire? The dances you wanted to attend? The drawings you used to make?”

It did not even sound like she was referring to my life.

“Well, we’re not in Shanghai anymore,” I said. “Shanghai was alive and real and home.”

“Find the boy again,” she suggested. “Do not forget there is still pleasure in this life.”

The next time I found Torou studying at the corner desk, I joined him with my books. He slid a package over to me. I opened it. Inside were two more books—an English novel and its Chinese translation.

“These aren’t cheap,” I said, because I could think of nothing else to say.

“Of course not.” He turned back to his work. “Stories are priceless.”

“How was your test?”

“Good. I think I can afford to goof off a bit now.”

Even so, we both opened our books and began to study. Somewhere along the way, I realized he had inched closer, or was it possible I had shifted nearer to him? Our thighs touched. Neither of us moved away.