When I close my eyes, there is only darkness. A thick, steady kind that presses gently against my eyelids. When I open them, color rushes back in all at once. Gold from the chandelier. Brown from polished wood. Red from plates stacked with roasted pork glazed in syrupy sauce.
The clink of metal against ceramic repeats in uneven rhythms. Forks scrape. Spoons tap. A glass settles too hard against the table. The air smells of soy sauce and sweetness, of perfume that lingers too long, of bodies pressed too closely in a house that feels too large and too full at the same time.
"Ma, do you know anyone I can write a biography about?"
My hands remain flat on the table. I do not reach for my drink. I do not move my plate. I keep my palms pressed against the wood as if the surface might steady the tremor I feel crawling up my arms.
Dinner has never been my favorite thing.
We always eat together. Same table. Same expectation. Conversation moves like a living thing, hopping from one person to another. I try to follow it, but it rarely pauses for me. And when there is silence, when the air turns still and heavy, somehow it becomes mine. A quiet I brought. A mood I caused. Selfish, they would say.
"Ma," I try again, a little louder.
My voice dissolves into the clatter of utensils. No one looks up.
I swallow and gather what little courage I have left. "Mom."
Her head turns this time. Slowly. Her brows pull together as if I have interrupted something sacred.
"What do you want?"
The sharpness in her tone makes my shoulders stiffen. She does not speak to the others like that. Her voice with them is light, almost sweet. With me, it feels measured. Tired.
"I just wanted to ask if you know anyone that…" I feel eyes drifting toward me. Not curious. Not warm. Just observing. We are not home. We are at a relative's birthday celebration in a house that echoes when someone laughs too loudly. "…that I can interview for a school project."
I offer a small smile, the kind meant to soften edges. Then I quickly fill my mouth with rice and pork, as if chewing might protect me from whatever response comes next.
My throat is dry, but my mouth floods with saliva. The rice sticks. The meat feels too thick. I force myself to chew slowly, though my jaw feels tight.
"I do," my mother says, lifting her glass without looking at me. "But I don't think they want you."
She drinks. The conversation beside her resumes immediately.
Her words settle in my chest, heavier than the food I am trying to swallow. I nod slightly, though she is no longer watching. I take a gulp of water and close my eyes for a second, willing the lump in my throat to dissolve.
Don't choke. Not here.
"But is there anyone who would?" I manage, my voice smaller now.
No answer. She is laughing at something someone else has said. The moment has already passed.
I sit back in my chair. The hum of conversation grows louder, wrapping around me but never including me. Maybe this is not about me at all. Maybe they are simply busy catching up with relatives they rarely see in person. Maybe they assume I will occupy myself quietly, that I will fold into the background without complaint.
That, at least, I am good at.
When dinner ends, chairs scrape against the floor and guests scatter through the house in loose clusters. The scent of leftover food lingers behind us as I slip away from the dining area.
I find a quieter corner of the house. A wide sofa upholstered in cream fabric sits beneath a large painting framed in gold. The painting looks foreign, almost too refined for the room, like it traveled across oceans to rest here. The air-conditioning hums softly above me, cool against my skin.
For a moment, I allow myself to breathe.
"Hey. Hi."
The voice startles me.
I turn quickly and see a medium-sized dog standing a few feet away. Silver and black fur, thick and plush. Its dark eyes are bright with curiosity. Its tail sways with unfiltered enthusiasm.
I blink.
"And no, I'm not a dog. I mean, that's nicer than some of the stuff I get called back home, but it's still kinda offensive, eh?"
My gaze lifts.
A boy stands behind the dog, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his shorts. He looks relaxed, like he belongs everywhere he stands. His accent curves differently than mine. Softer vowels. A faint rhythm that sounds almost musical.
He nods toward the dog. "That's a Keeshond. His name's Charlie. Absolute sweetheart. But I'm Connor."
Charlie gives a short bark, as if confirming the introduction, and trots back to press against the boy's leg.
"I'm Jane," I reply.
He steps closer and offers his hand. "Nice to meet you, ate… wait. Are you older than me? I'm twelve this year."
"I'm sixteen."
"Oh. Nice. Good thing I checked," he says with a small laugh. "Still figuring out the ate and kuya thing. Don't wanna get roasted for that."
I laugh before I can stop myself. The sound feels unfamiliar in my own ears, lighter than it has been all evening.
He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "You looked sad earlier."
I glance away instinctively. "Did I?"
"Yeah. Before Charlie tried to recruit you as his new best friend, you looked kinda… out of place." He shrugs. "Like everyone else was having a blast and you were just somewhere else entirely."
His words are gentle. Not accusing. Just observant.
"I was thinking about school," I admit. The confession comes easier than it should. "We have this project. We need to interview someone and write their biography. I asked some relatives yesterday and tonight, but none of them want to."
Connor frowns. "Seriously? Why not?"
"After the interview, my group writes their life story. Not everyone likes the idea of someone else telling it for them." I stare at the painting above the sofa. "I guess people are protective of their stories."
"Fair enough," he says quietly. "That's personal stuff."
I nod. "I just… thought someone would say yes."
The silence that follows is softer than the one at the dinner table. It does not press against me. It rests.
"I think I can help," he says suddenly.
My head turns toward him too quickly. Hope sparks before I can control it. "You would let me interview you?"
He bursts into laughter, bending slightly as he holds his stomach. "Whoa. Easy there. I mean, you could, but I'm twelve. My life story would be, like, hockey practice and math homework."
Heat creeps up my neck. I feel silly for assuming.
"Hey," he says, straightening up. "I wasn't messing with you. I just meant… I know someone."
I narrow my eyes slightly, though not seriously. "Who?"
"My dad," Connor replies. "He's a doctor in Montreal. Works at one of the biggest hospitals there. Total old soul. Sometimes he talks like he's lived three lifetimes. Trust me, he's got stories."
"Montreal?" I repeat. The word feels distant.
"Yeah. Canada," he adds casually. "He's not here right now. Work keeps him there most of the year."
I glance around the spacious living room, at the high ceilings and expensive decor. "Is this your house?"
He grins. "Yeah. My mum handles things here when we visit. Dad flies in when he can."
The idea settles slowly in my mind. A doctor. A hospital. Years of experience. Stories shaped by life and death.
"How would I interview him?" I ask carefully.
"I'll give you his email," Connor says. "He checks that religiously. If he doesn't reply on Facebook or WhatsApp, don't take it personally. He's just old-school like that."
Charlie nudges his hand, demanding attention. Connor kneels and runs his fingers through the dog's thick fur. The texture looks impossibly soft.
I pull out my phone, typing carefully as he spells out the address. I double-check every letter, afraid of making a mistake that might cost me this chance.
When I finish, I look up at him.
"Thank you… really."
He shrugs, but there is a proud glint in his eyes. "Yeah, no worries. Happy to help, eh?"
And for the first time that evening, the tightness in my chest loosens. Not completely. But enough.