I picked up the nearest pencil and traced it across my notebook. Each stroke deepened as I tried to rub the heart deeper into the paper, turn it into nothing more than a nub. My fingers turned white from the pressure. Then the heart snapped. The tip rolled away. I stared into the hollow of the wood.

Heartbroken. It could not have been more obvious.

Chapter 21

From the diary of Monica Tsai, backed up on three servers spanning two continents

October 30, 2018 (2018-10-30T19:10:16.747097)

loc: Cambridge, Massachusetts. United States of America (42.3721865,71.1117091)

Louise has left, and the house is quiet once more. Things didn’t go the way I hoped for her last day. There’s nothing I can do about that now though. She had a train to catch. She’s back on her path, and I’m back on mine. That’s how these things go, I guess.

I had planned to wake up early to make us breakfast. So when I heard footsteps behind me, I assumed it was grandfather, usually the earliest riser. I jumped when it was Louise’s voice behind me, her mouth right next to my ear.

“How can I help?”

“Don’t!” I exclaimed. I had never felt more like grandmother than in that instant, wanting to drive her out of the kitchen and yell at her for sneaking up on me, while also strangely pleased she was there.

She peered over my shoulder at the still-rising dough and asked what I was making. I told her it was a secret, that she should go back to bed.

“Can’t sleep. Keep seeing mahjong tiles in my head.” She glanced around the kitchen. “I was hoping your grandmother would be awake so I could interview her before I left.”

I told her grandmother always sleeps in after mahjong nights. I tried to focus on the dough. Rolling and brushing on sesame oil paste, rolling again, layering, Louise’s gaze warm on me. Grandmother had taught me the recipe a few weeks ago. Hers had turned out perfectly rectangular while mine were looking more trapezoidal. I flattened each trapezoid into a plate of white and black sesame seeds.

“You’re making shaobing,” Louise said, still behind me.

“Stop peeking.”

“I need a spoon for my oatmeal.”

I was indeed blocking the spoon drawer. Right as I was about to back up to open it, I felt two light touches on either side of my waist, followed by the gentlest of nudges. I stepped aside, clearing the way. Even so, Louise’s hands lingered. I opened my mouth to say something but could think of absolutely nothing to say. Her hands left my waist and opened the drawer, pulled out a spoon, and popped it in her mouth. She smiled, teeth reflecting off the metal surface, her eyes crinkled.

“Your shaobing?” she reminded me, taking the spoon out of her mouth and plopping it into her bowl.

I turned back to my raw dough.