article about the Miss Universe winner who is also a NASA astronaut?"

Olivia chuckled over the phone. "No."

"Great. Just me then."

I crossed one sock-covered ankle over the other on my mattress. With my head on my pillow, I could crane my neck back and see all the family photographs on the wall above my bed. Even though they were upside down and foreshortened, the scenes remained familiar.

Mao Mao when he was just a kitten. Dad taking us four kids fishing. Mom in China with Thomas and Olivia—the oldest two. Me and Kevin in our kindergarten play—Gretel, and breadcrumb, respectively.

"When did she send you that?" Olly wondered.

"This morning on WeChat. No other context—"

"—as usual."

"As usual," I snorted in agreement. "But it's not like I needed context."

It wasn't unexpected. Sometimes Mom would DM me random things with no preface. The benefits of herbal medicine. Videos of some ninety-year-old man from the mainland who cooked a massive amount of food in his rural village. Women who juggled it all while looking like supermodels.

Twenty-five years old, the winner of multiple beauty pageants, with a liver built for colossal G-forces. I would have asked Mom why the hell that article applied to me, but I knew why.

"I heard her voice nice and clear in my soul. Look at this woman. Why are you not her?"

"It's okay, Kris. She's just worried about your future."

"But she shouldn't be. I've sent my primary applications to a long list of Med schools, and I've gotten secondaries from Icahn already. My professors were falling over themselves to write me letters of recommendation, and my grades this semester are nearly perfect."

Olly quipped, "Nearly perfect?"

I chuckled. "God, you're right." Nearly perfect. "Mom must be distraught."

After Olivia's laughter reduced to seriousness, she told me: "I know Mom is intense right now, but your future is still very tenuous. I'm married. I have Pippa. A steady job. Mom officially considers me too boring to worry about."

"No, not too boring. Too perfect. You're a doctor who married a respectable Chinese man, and gave her the first grandchild. You are the perfect daughter."

My sister was ten years older than me. Olly lived with her husband in a small loft in Manhattan. She had done the Pre-Med route, and now she was a GP at a family clinic, doing very well for herself. My oldest brother Thomas was twenty-six, and had also done the Pre-Med route, and he was currently doing his placement in Texas.

"You think it's getting easier for Kevin?" I asked Olly. "Honestly."

Unlike our two oldest siblings, Kevin hadn't done the Pre-Med route. He never went to university. He still lived at home at age twenty-two. Mom was heartbroken about that, but she couldn't voice those anxieties because his steady job helped pay the bills. Kevin was the black sheep, the receiver of passive-aggression, the person I did not have the courage to be like.

The best older brother.

"I'm not too sure. I need to talk to him more," Olly admitted. "But I do know it gets easier, faster than you might think."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"Fine. In the meantime, I will reply to Mom saying that I'm working on my zero-gravity training."

"Better not. You know she doesn't understand sarcasm."

"Crap. You're right."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Quen and I sped through the revision questions in tutorial class on Thursday.

Our answers matched. I browsed through my messages to spend the time, waiting patiently for Grant to come round and release us.

Krista: Untrue. They are soul-crushing.

Krista: And boring.

Noah had taken to messaging me consistently since the night we met at Topaz. I always kept the topics clean and replied with just enough information to be polite. After all, I didn't want Quen hearing from his best friend that I was snobbish, or a bitch, when he was already so apathetic to me. But I really wished he would take the hint and give up.

Or that Quen would be the one showing such keen interest.

First world problem, I knew, but it was just my luck that I would catch the wrong friend's eye.

I leaned back in my chair and blew a puff of air.

"Why don't you have Instagram?"

Quen's fingers paused on his programming, sparing me a flat expression. "I hate sharing pictures of myself."

"You don't have to share pictures of yourself. You can watch other people share pictures and mock them," I suggested. "Or, if you ever comment these hair vitamin gummies are not FDA-approved on one of my posts, I'll even pin it."

"How kind."

We were on even better terms than before our debate in the Topaz VIP lounge. Now we both knew that our friendship could take some prodding and poking without collapsing. We could argue a point and emerge on the other side with no hard feelings. I was this much closer to changing his mind, to earning a chance.

Operation Pride & Prejudice was a go.

Quen shook his head, two inky black strands separating from the mass over his forehead. "I'll pass. I just don't think I would have a healthy relationship with Instagram."

"Aw. You and Instagram could seek couple's counselling?"

"Shit, you're right. I should have thought of that option. But seriously. You don't find it unhealthy, at all? Not even a little bit?"

"I do, sometimes. People think they are entitled to every piece of me just because they follow me. I love my fans, and I know they're just curious, but I can't owe them everything. I learnt from a young age to protect myself by masking."

"What's that like?"

"If they want a fashionista, I give them a fashionista."

"You were wearing crocs and socks the day we met," he scoffed.

"Hey, I never claimed to be a fashionista. I just mirror what people want from me. When they think they know me, think they have all the answers, they won't ask more. They won't pry, and then I can get home faster and watch more Clone Wars."

Quen nodded with understanding, folding the lid of his laptop down. "So you make up things to satisfy their curiosity."

When he turned to look at me, I saw something like disapproval reflecting back at me. It made me bristle.

"It's not making up things. I'm not lying—I tell them I love Zuko and that I have a cactus named Rudy. All true things."

"But the delivery matters. The way you smile, the pictures you choose, the persona you adopt," he questioned calmly.

The mirroring technique I used around other people didn't help me with Quen, because he was so honest. Too honest. His mannerisms didn't fit nicely on me, because it was purely him. His gentle but blunt nature, his composure, the way he smiled. He was tactful without ever changing his opinions, considerate but deeply convicted.

He was one of the strongest people I'd ever met.

Quen also didn't try to protect my feelings or maintain the peace—yet more evidence he wasn't into me. It was so refreshing, yet discouraging. I tried to dislike his quiet stubbornness. If we ever dated, our arguments would be astronomical.

But I couldn't dislike it.

His disapproval had shifted to sympathy, and then genuine concern. "Doesn't it get exhausting?"

That question was uncomfortably close to home. I always felt two-faced, or like an imposter. I'd been shoved into a life that wasn't really mine at fourteen years old, and never really felt like I had grown into it. I still felt insecure, pretentious, and aimless. Exhausting was perhaps an understatement.

"Maybe."

"I just think you could do more with your platform than makeup tutorials and clothing hauls."

"People don't want to see more than that. I've tested it before. The stats don't lie. But I do agree. I have other platforms for doing good deeds."

"Ah. The OnlyFans?" he drawled. "Kidding."

"Natural Affairs."

"Like the weather?"

"Like the statewide publication. No-one's ever heard of it. We're struggling to grow, but we have a loyal readership. I just published an article about invasive species in Massachusetts. Right now I'm working on a CRISPR for Dummies article."

Quen exhaled sharply. "Wow."

"What?"

"You're just..."

I met his awed gaze smoothly. "I'm just?"

"Just...I don't know."

I gritted my teeth. So close, yet so far.

Grant veered tantalisingly close to our table, but ended up hobbling away and checking in with the table to our left. Compared to our group of two, Joelle—a fellow Pre-Med major—and her friends looked like the hottest girl group to ever take the Science Faculty by storm. I knew it would take about a minute for Grant's eyesight to even focus on their handwritten equations.

"So. You want Natural Affairs to grow. You also have over a million fans." Quen rubbed his chin like a long-dead Greek philosopher, faking deep thought. "There's an idea there somewhere. Give me a minute."

Laughter rumbled from my throat. I got it: he thought if I wanted to grow the publication's readership, I should promote it on my social media platforms. But I'd already tried plugging an article once in a blue moon, and—

"I will lose followers. Engagement stats will plummet. Believe me, I've tried before," I told Quen. "Some of my followers are science-sceptic. Which I hate, too, don't fight me on it. So I'm not sure Natural Affairs needs that sort of readership."

"Oh."

"It's best to keep them separate."

Quen's expression was unreadable. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes were swimming with something akin to curiosity. Was he confused? Or disbelieving? Or disappointed? Probably all three.

"If you didn't need money," Quen cocked his head to the side, "what would you do with your life?"

"I would want to take care of my family."

"If your family was fully cared for. Who would you be?"

Well, that was a pointless line of thinking to go down. Quen wanted to discover who I was when I was isolated from my environment, but I couldn't remove myself from how I'd grown up.

What I wanted today was irrevocably shaped by who I'd been yesterday. By the fact that Mom and Dad were immigrants. That six people and one cat had grown up in three bedrooms. And that now, Mom and Dad were aging, and I loved them too much not to do everything for them.

If my family was untouchable?

Then I had no idea who I was. Family was my guiding compass. Without them, I would be a needle with no north.

Uncomfortable under Quen's intense stare, I shifted in my seat and dropped my gaze.

"Sorry," his voice floated by. "I didn't mean to pry."

"Friends are allowed to pry," I instantly replied, waving his apology away. He hadn't upset me—not at all.

He'd stumped me.

"You can ask me anything you like, anytime," I said, scanning my written work. Checking every answer had an SI unit by the numerical value.

"Okay."

Moments later, Quen's hand appeared in my field of vision, reaching over the table to grab mine. "For the record, I think people would listen to anything you said, even if it's about CRISPR for dummies."

He tugged my hand closer. One squeeze, and then it was gone.

My heart leaped into my throat. I suddenly felt sweat down the hollow of my spine. The way he had held my hand made me think his words were sent through his body, connected to our intertwined fingers, and received through my skin.

I looked up. There was an empathetic glint to his expression.

Consolation.

Not romance.

Or it could be romance?

I had no idea.

This moment was either a moment of clarity or of complete insanity. He either liked me, or not-liked me so intensely that he would never construe touching me as romantic. He was driving me crazy.

"Okay," I said dumbly. Think faster. Find something witty to say. "So. What am I just?"

He'd tried to finish the sentence before, but fell short. I wanted that one word. It would be so telling. Was I incredible? Crazy? Disappointing?

Quen pretended to think long on the matter. Or maybe he wasn't pretending.

"You're just you," he said at length.

Well.

What did that even mean?

"Ground-breaking," I quipped.

"I think so."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Banter, pining, skinny love, with feel good family and friendship vibes.

That's this book in a sentence.

I'm really excited to explore identity through this story because there's so much to play with. Public identity, but also internal. I feel like if I hadn't written Krista, I would have ended up struggling with the same things she does.

Writing helps me process and learn!

Aimee x