I Hope This Doesn't Find You

And now there’s you. This whole time, it’s been you, and I didn’t even realize. In retrospect, it makes sense, doesn’t it? In order to beat the enemy, you have to understand them intimately. You have to observe them, learn their weaknesses, memorize their every word, track their progress, predict their next move. For ten years I thought I was preparing to destroy you, when really I was preparing to love you.

All of which is to say I really hope this finds you.

And I hope you find me too.

Sadie

I receive his reply within ten minutes. It’s only two sentences:

You were right, Sadie Wen. I am completely, helplessly obsessed with you.

Love,

Julius

Julius,

I’m writing this to inform you that you’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met. You, with your smug, razor-sharp smiles, your mocking eyes, your arrogance, and your vanity. Your voice when you call my name, your hands when they wrap around mine. I’m not so familiar with vices—I like to think I have none, but if anything were to count, you would be my only one. It must be an addiction or an obsession. I have never known anybody as completely as I know you, and yet I still want to sit next to you, draw close to you, closer. I want you to tell me every story, want to listen to you speak until the night sinks in the sky and the stars fade out. I want you to hold me like a grudge, keep me like a promise, haunt me like a ghost. You’re so beautiful it enrages me.

Maybe you’re expecting an apology after all this time, so I’ll cut to the chase: It’s not coming. I apologize far too much—I’m working on it, I promise—but I’m not sorry for those emails.

You know that evening when I stumbled across your conversation with your brother? All right, not stumbled—followed. That’s beside the point. Afterward, I could track the hurt in your eyes, and everything in me burned. I’m not sure if I expressed myself clearly enough then, if I’d convinced you enough. If not, then let me establish for now and forever that you will never be second. You will never be inadequate. You will never be anything but good.

Because you care how your parents see you. Because you will talk about anything except the things that actually hurt you. Because you never commit to something if you can’t see it through to the end. Because you are brutally hard on yourself, and you have never gone easy on me in a competition or test. Because you challenge me, you distract me when my brain is being cruel, you sharpen my edges when the world tries to wear them down. Because every time I tired during class, I would catch your eye across the room, and remember why I needed to keep going.

Since I’ve decided to peel back my pride for the length of this email, let me tell you a little secret. When I was fourteen, I would stare up at my bedroom walls and wonder what it was like to fall in love. Most of my inspiration came from songs and the movies. But still, I imagined it. What it would be like to be someone who had somebody else. I would imagine tenderness. The concept of infinity. Of endless patience. Imagine them chasing after me even when I run. Cradling my sorrows in the palm of their hands. Imagine them caring, trying to understand.

It can’t be a fantasy—I’m certain of that now. My own imagination couldn’t conjure something like this.

“Of course, if you . . . if you don’t want to,” he says into the silence, sliding his gaze away from me, “I can accept that. I won’t bring it up again. I know I’m not . . . I know what I’m like. That I’m infuriating. And selfish. And cruel. I know I’m not perfect the way my brother is, and I manage to disappoint my parents every time. It’s okay if you don’t choose me, really—I never expected to be the first choice. I wouldn’t blame you—”

“I do choose you.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me at first. He’s still talking, rambling really, the words flowing out like rainwater. “I can’t always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and— Wait.” He stops. Even his breath freezes in his throat. “What . . . did you just say? Say it again.”

“I choose you,” I say quietly, glad for the shadows concealing my flushed cheeks. For the support of the wall behind me. “You’ll always be my first choice, Julius Gong.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

His eyes widen, and he leans in, lips parted, his fingers trembling like moth wings over my cheeks. It’s clear what he wants, and I almost let him. But I’m not going to make it that easy.

I twist my head away. “I recall you saying you would rather die than kiss me again.”

He lets out a soft, half-stifled groan, and the sound shoots straight through my bloodstream. Makes my pulse quicken. “God, you really know how to hold a grudge.”

“They’re your words, not mine,” I tell him, refusing to sway.

“You’re killing me now,” he murmurs against my neck. His lips graze my skin, and his other hand slides up, tangles in my hair, his nails lightly scraping my scalp. Despite myself, I feel my resolve buckle. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No.” I try to ignore it. The heat in my veins. The crisp scent of him, peppermint and rain. For once I have all the power, and I’d be a fool to let it go without putting up a good fight—no matter how badly I want him to just kiss me.

“Fine, then.” His breath warms the shell of my ear. Tickles my cheek. “Please.”

I can feel my heart pounding. “What?”

“Please, Sadie. I’m begging.”

A triumphant grin splits over my face. “All right. I suppose, in that case—”

He doesn’t even give me a chance to finish my sentence. His mouth is on mine in an instant, desperate, urgent. And I cave in. I hate surrendering, but maybe it’s different when you’re both surrendering to the same thing, because this doesn’t feel awful. The opposite, actually.

“What, are you going to accuse me of pitying you? Of being too nice?” I ask. It’s a challenge. This is what we do, I realize. We talk in circles. We give each other riddles, confounding clues, half answers. Everything and anything but the truth.

“No— No, I’m sorry for that,” he says quickly. Swallows. He’s never sounded so nervous, so unsure of himself, and I find my anger bleeding out of me. “I didn’t mean to say those things. I shouldn’t have assumed . . . There were only two possible explanations for why you were acting the way you were, and the other seemed too unlikely. And I was—scared.”

“Scared?” The last of my frustration vanishes like smoke in a breeze. It’s almost funny; nobody else infuriates me like he does, but nobody else makes it this difficult to stay mad. “Of what?”

“Losing,” he whispers.

I stare.

“You have to understand . . . If you knew the effect you had on me, how often I think about you, the things I would do for you . . . I wouldn’t stand a chance against you ever again. You would have taken everything from me,” he goes on in a rush, like the words are burning him from within, like he has to get it out before the pain becomes overwhelming. “Not just a debating championship or some points for a test or a fancy award or a spot in a competition—but my whole heart. My pride. God, my sanity. It would be all over. You would annihilate me.”

I keep staring. I’m afraid to so much as blink, to breathe, afraid it’ll shatter whatever wild fantasy or lucid dream this is. He can’t possibly be saying these things to me. About me.

“I mean, nothing has even really happened between us,” he says hoarsely, “and already it’s hard for me to concentrate whenever you’re around. My brother was right, in a sense, about you being a distraction, except you’re so much more than that. I can’t pretend to care about the things that once interested me. I can’t fall asleep. I play through every look you’ve ever cast in my direction. I read through your emails over and over until they’re carved into my memory. You did this to me,” he says, and there’s a rough, bitter edge to his voice now, nearly an accusation.

My knees buckle. It’s too much to absorb. I feel myself slide down against the wall, sink onto the floor.

“You had to write those awful emails,” he continues, lowering himself down next to me. Except he’s kneeling, and he’s still too close. I’m convinced he can hear my heart thrumming. “You had to kiss me, then kick me, then fill my head with your voice. You made it clear—so terribly clear—how much you hate me. That I’m the last person in the world you would ever consider. But I kept looking for signs that would suggest otherwise. I kept wondering if it was still possible. Because I’m willing to lose everything,” he says, his eyes blacker than the surrounding darkness, than the sky outside, “so long as I don’t lose you.”

I’m stunned.

“Don’t change the topic.”

“You’re the one changing the topic,” I say, incredulous. “I’m just saying that there’s a much more pressing issue at hand. If you have a solution, I’m always happy to hear it, but if not, you could at least cooperate—”

“Stop acting like you’re better than us,” Danny snaps. “You’re the type to write shady emails about people behind their backs.”

“And you’re the type to write Sadie Wen is a bitch on a bike shed,” I shoot back.

There’s a collective, sharp inhalation from the crowd. “Damn,” somebody mutters.

I can’t even believe the words coming out of my own mouth, but it feels good. I’m so tired of playing nice, of smiling as people walk over me. What I’m realizing is that if you’re quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission. And they’re going to hurt you again and again. “Yeah, I know it was you,” I say coldly, folding my arms across my chest.

Danny stares at me. “You know? So you were the one who sent Julius to punch me?”

The whole room screeches to a stop. The world freezes on its axis.

Now it’s my turn to stare. “Julius punched you?”

“Julius punched him?” someone else whispers in the background. “But I thought he and Sadie hated each other.”

“But they kissed each other,” someone says. “At that party, remember?”

“Wait, Julius and Sadie kissed each other?” someone asks. “Why am I so behind on the gossip? How did I miss this?”

“Yeah, well, seeing as she sent him a bunch of emails—”

“Technically, Abigail sent it.”

“Abigail sent it? Sadie’s best friend, Abigail?”

“Sorry, I was walking past their dorm room and kind of overheard a bit of their conversation—I left just as Julius showed up to her room though. So I’m guessing he likes her.”

“Whose room?”

“Abigail’s room.”

“Wait, Julius likes Abigail?”

“No, Julius likes Sadie. They just share the same room.”

“Him and Sadie?”

“No— Oh my god, this is why you’re so behind on gossip.”

I’m breathing against the knot in my chest and scanning the room, but I can’t find Julius anywhere. I have no idea where he is or what this means or why I’m doing exactly what I’d accused Danny of doing earlier: forgetting the issue at hand. It’s so bizarre how our brains work, how our priorities are organized by emotions instead of actual significance. This cabin could be flooded soon and still we’d be standing around gossiping, too fixated on our own petty grievances and grudges and crushes to notice the sky falling.

“Just. Stop,” I say to nobody in particular. “Stop. If you disagree with me, I can’t force you to do much. But if you do agree, then please, listen to me.”

I don’t expect anything.

For a long time, it seems that I’m right not to. Nothing happens. Nobody moves.

But then Rosie nods and flashes me her best smile. “Okay, I got you. Buckets coming right up.” It’s like magic. For the first time, I think I truly understand the term influencer. Because with a few simple words, everybody has been influenced. Her friends leap into action right away, and someone whips out tape to stop the smaller leaks. The water has already progressed through most of the room, but we manage to stop it from flowing into the corridor.

Just when I think the worst of it is over, the bulb above me suddenly flickers. There’s a loud buzzing sound, like an insect caught in a trap.

And the power goes out.

By the end, I’m one of the last two people left. Me, and that boy in our year level who talks to nobody.

Julius’s eyes flicker between us. His expression is passive, careless, when he nods once at the boy. He doesn’t even appear sorry. It’s not as if I was ever certain I could be his first choice. But knowing that I’m his last choice—it’s a twist of a knife in the gut.

“You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night,” she says, studying my face.

I grimace. “I didn’t. I was busy strategizing my next move.”

She almost spits out her drink with laughter. “My darling, you’re not planning to go to war here—you’re just telling a boy you like him—”

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, scanning the bus. There are still students shuffling their way down the aisle, others standing up to search for their friends or shove their luggage under the seats. “Someone will hear you.”

“Nobody could possibly guess who we’re talking about. Like, I barely believed you when you told me. And he’s not even here yet,” she says lightly. “Also, if we’re really focusing on strategy, I feel like you should kind of ease into it. You know, considering your . . . history and all. You don’t want to startle him by launching into an impassioned speech straightaway.”

“Huh?” I’m still craning my neck, checking every face that passes. I feel physically nauseous, and it’s only partially because I skipped breakfast altogether this morning. I feel almost as sick as I did before my school captain speech, before our end‑of‑year exams, even. Is this what liking someone should be? Because contrary to common description, there’s nothing warm or gentle about it at all. This is a violent intrusion, my own body revolting against me. There are no butterflies in my stomach, only scorpions.

“Maybe just act friendly first. Or at least like you don’t absolutely loathe the guy,” Abigail advises. “Plus—”

“Oh my god, he’s coming.”

After wasting so much time thinking about him since yesterday, it’s a surreal experience to see him just standing a few feet away. There, right there. The sun streaming in through the bus windows and hitting his face.

But if I look like I didn’t sleep last night, he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Tired, blue-gray circles are smudged around his eyes, and his hair is rumpled for once, messy strands falling free over his forehead. Then he catches me staring and stares back.

The scorpions inside my stomach crawl up to my throat.

“Remember: Be friendly,” Abigail hisses under her breath.

“Do you think there’s any chance . . .” It feels so foolish, even asking it out loud. “Any chance he would like me?”

“Wow, yeah, you’re in deep,” she says. “And I don’t see why he wouldn’t. You’re the whole package. You’re smart and good at everything and you’re totally hot in this kind of successful future-executive way—”

I snort out a laugh despite myself. Then I come to a sobering realization. “But you’re not factoring in the emails,” I tell her. “You should’ve seen how upset he was when he first received them. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for them yet. I don’t know if he ever will.”

“Right.” She pauses. “About those emails—”

“Like, would you ever want to be with someone who once expressed to you, clearly, in written text, that they would rather listen to someone perform slam poetry about corporate income taxes in an auditorium without ventilation on the hottest day of summer while a baby plays tug‑of‑war with their hair from behind than have to sit through your speech for school captain again?”

There’s a long silence. Then, in a voice of forced optimism, she says, “Maybe he’ll wake up one day and lose half his memories.”

“So it’s pointless how I feel.” I slump back in my seat again. “Because he’ll never be able to move past this.”

“You can’t be certain,” she insists. “You can’t be certain of anything unless you tell him, face‑to‑face.”

I cough. “Tell him? Tell him what? Oh, hi, I know we’ve hated each other’s guts for a decade and you find me insufferable, but I think we should make out.”

“It’s a pretty convincing pitch,” she says. “And you know what? The retreat will be the perfect time to do it. You’ll be in the same place, and you’ll have time to yourselves, and there won’t be as many teachers around. The only shame is that the retreat isn’t set at, like, a beach or something. It would be so cute—”

“It was going to be,” I say grimly. “But Julius rejected the idea on the terms that it would be too romantic—and yes, I know, the irony is occurring to me as we speak.”

“He really shot himself in the foot with that one, huh?”

“Or saved himself,” I tell her. “Maybe he was protecting himself in advance from the chances of someone cornering him with a confession. Maybe he’s, like, opposed to relationships in general, and even more opposed to a relationship with me, specifically.”

She clucks her tongue at me. “Where’s your confidence disappeared to?”

“You realize that, according to the laws of physics, something can’t disappear if it never existed in the first place, right? Matter can’t be created or destroyed—”

“Just talk to him, Sadie. Really. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I sigh. Grip the edge of my desk to steady myself against the overwhelming tide of possibilities. “Everything,” I say. “He could laugh at me. He could weaponize my feelings against me in every test and competition to come. He could mock me for the rest of my lifetime. He could recoil with horror and disgust—”

“Or he could surprise you with his response,” she says. “Just consider it, okay?”

I chew the flesh of my cheek until it stings. Somehow, I feel even more disoriented now than I did at the beginning of the call. “Okay. I will.”

The principal refocuses. “Ah, right. I know it’s been a while since we had our last conversation about your little . . . incident.” His mouth puckers with distaste, as if the incident in question involved us publicly vandalizing his office or undressing the school mascot. “I just wanted to check in with you two. How are we feeling? Have you been enjoying your time with each other?”

“Yes, I’ve been having a wonderful time,” Julius says.

When I turn to him in surprise, he tilts his head almost imperceptibly toward the principal, his eyes narrowing.

“Simply incredible,” I agree, catching on. If we can just convince Principal Miller his plan worked, we might be able to finally leave the emails behind us and go our separate ways. “We’re so close now. We’re basically best friends.”

“The best of friends.” Julius nods fast. “We hang out even when we’re not at school. She’s the first person I think of when something goes well and when something goes wrong. We even finish each other’s—”

“Math questions,” I say. “He’s been a great help in class.”

“She’s right. I help her all the time.”

I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Although, of course, I help him plenty as well, seeing as I’m much more familiar with the syllabus than he is—”

“But only because I’m so busy doing the advanced questions.” Julius’s grin is so wide it looks like it hurts. There’s a visible muscle twitching in his jaw. “And because I don’t find memorizing the syllabus to be an effective study method, although I concede that it may be beneficial for those with a rudimentary understanding of the content—”

“Which is exactly the kind of thinking that could lead some people,” I say in a bright voice, squeezing my fingers together under the desk, “to lose three marks on an important test and then complain that the topic wasn’t covered, when it was actually stated in black and white.”

Principal Miller’s brows furrow.

“All of this is to say that Julius is lovely,” I say quickly.

“And Sadie is the light of my life,” Julius says, his lip curling, even though there’s an odd note to his tone. Something that could be confused for sincerity. “The sun in my sky, the source of all my joy. She’s the reason I wake up every morning excited to go to my classes. Not a day goes by where I’m not grateful that she exists, that she’s there, that I get to talk to her and pass her in the halls and listen to her laugh.”

I’m concerned he’s gone a bit too far with the irony, but Principal Miller looks convinced. No, he even looks moved.

“That was beautiful,” the principal says, and I have to remember not to roll my eyes. “Truly. I have to admit, I was somewhat skeptical about how well this would work out between you two given the rather intense nature of those emails, but . . . well, I always knew I was a miracle worker. I guess I really do come up with the best solutions.”

I’d thought he was joking. “You . . . But you won it. You should keep it.”

He rolls his eyes. “I have so many of these lying around my house I don’t have any room left.”

“Okay, you’re just openly bragging now—”

“Only speaking the truth.”

“I—”

“Just take it, Sadie.” He closes the distance between us and hangs the medal around my neck. It’s still warm from his touch, smooth against my skin when I turn it over, unable to stop myself from admiring its faint glow, the shine of the gold. The weight of it. It’s prettier than any necklace I’ve ever seen. I open my mouth to thank him, but then he adds, carelessly, “Consider it compensation for all the awards I’ve taken from you.”

My gratitude curdles into a scoff on my tongue, and he laughs at the look on my face.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

“For being cocky?”

“That too.”

But I brush my thumb over the medal, and even though I can’t decide what it really means—a gift, a form of compensation, proof of something—it’s somehow one of the best things I’ve ever received.