Without any introduction, I told her everything. Your first message to me. How we met and I gave you her pencil. How even from that first encounter I wanted to know you more, yet I felt you pushing me away. How we still became close, how I told you about my project and you, in turn, told me about yours. How you gushed about your grandparents in a way that made me ache for all I did not have. How you invited me to your home and brought me to your grandfather’s old classroom, how I almost kissed you right then because you got me in a way no one else ever has.

But I didn’t. And then I messed everything up. Like I always knew I would. Because in that moment, in that classroom, only the two of us, the thought that stopped me was how would I ever be able to live with myself if I broke your heart?

I guess more than any romantic partner or friend, I wanted most in the world to know that I belonged somewhere, to know my place in history so I could navigate a path through the chaos of the world we live in. You have that—you know who you are and that you can do anything you put your mind to. I wanted that so badly. I thought you could help me get there, that your grandparents’ story might help me better understand myself and who I’m supposed to be now. That if I gathered enough stories, I could make that into my own, that I could create a map of the chaos around me, and something might make sense. And I knew I would give anything for that, maybe even you.

I told Meng all of this while looking at her scrunched-up forehead. At some point I started to cry, and she said, I kid you not—

“Oh, stop crying.”

So I did, ashamed.

She rubbed her forehead, as if mulling something over.

“Why did you call me?” she asked finally.

I almost hung up then, afraid I was wasting her time, that I had angered yet another one of your family members. Eventually, I came to an answer.

“Why did you tell me about Reforging?” I asked. It felt so long ago that we were eating noodles together, and I was telling her what I wanted to do with archiving, and she told me to be careful, and I asked what made her say that, and she invited me home with her, and shared this great secret.

She sighed.

“Because you were so much like us. Because I thought you would understand the dangers.” She paused. “But it sounds like you were no better than we were.”

I was crushed.

“How do I ask for forgiveness?” I asked.

It must have been a question she has pondered many times herself. Her answer was quick and without hesitation.