Three Years Time

Arlina Yang

I remembered all the colorful eyes that stared at her.

And her dark eyes darted around the room with her fidgeting hands as she was given a spot on the furthest front left of the room.

Her visibly tightened jaw.

Her unruly black hair.

Her worn out gray sneakers.

I wish I could’ve told her it’s okay to feel lost. And that everything will be okay.

But I didn’t. No one did either. 

I saw her slipping away into words every moment of the day. From the naive use of language, anxious walking during lunchtime, and failure to connect with the foreign culture. I could see her trying to connect with her past. From the feeble attempts to find conversation with old friends, pure bliss in seeing recognizable snacks during club meetings, and her sparkling eyes at hearing Mandarin. 

Yet each room, each step, and each minute was a reminder of her difference amongst the rest.

Every aspect of her past fought to connect with the present.

I looked back on our adventures together in the bustling city, where bright motorcycles ran rampant without a care for their life, 7/11s lined up in every corner of the street, and familiar streets with glitchy red Mandarin signs. 

She was prancing. She was home. She was alive.

But her dashing smile has never been the same since.

“Méiguānxì,” My voice was trapped inside my throat as I reached for her. 

She recoiled from my touch, like a deer ready to run in any split second. 

“Nǐ zuò de dào,” I couldn’t bring myself to her eye level. “Take your time to heal.”

“How long?” Her hands were shaking. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“You’ll belong one day.” I whispered. “Even if you don’t, you have me. You have us.”

Our eyes met, the same yet so different through three years’ time. 

I held her hands as a tear slid down my cheek.

“I’m so proud of you.”

She closed her eyes as our voices trembled.

“You made it.”