I used to think America was a dream. A place where the streets shimmered with opportunity, where a man could carve his future with his own hands. But dreams are cruel things. They trick you into believing, then leave you choking on the ashes of hope.
I wake up before the sun, pull on the same wrinkled dress shirt I wore yesterday, and head out into the cold. The city is different at this hour – hushed, expectant, as if waiting to see who will make it through the day. I clutch the crumpled printout of job listings in my pocket, though I've long since memorized them. Dishwashing. Warehouse work. Janitorial shifts. I tell myself I am not above any of it, but my stomach twists with shame each time I step into an office and see the way they look at me.
I feel bitter at the thought of Bella telling me that she could find me a future here. It seemed like her "connections" were only for herself. While she was working in a comfortable desk job, I was stuck roaming the streets looking for work.
I knew she made more than enough for both of us, but my pride wouldn't allow me to sit around and use up her money.
"Do you have experience?"
I nod.
"Doing what?"
Lying would be easy, but the words won't come. I have no degree, no references, just hands that know how to assemble textiles in the dark, that have learned the pain of loss in ways no employer wants to hear.
The manager frowns, already looking past me. "We'll call you if something opens up."
They never do.
I walk out into the November air, shoving my hands deep into my coat pockets. The cold reminds me of home – not the home I left, but the one that burned. The one where my mother pressed her lips to my forehead before sending me into the hills, whispering prayers she didn't believe in. The one where the streets weren't paved with opportunity but with bodies.
I shake my head, forcing the memories down. Sometimes, when a car backfires, I flinch. When a police siren wails, my pulse spikes. When I see a boy, dark-haired and sharp-eyed like I was at his age, I wonder if he too will grow up learning how to run before he learns how to dream.
At the next place, a diner on the corner, the manager is kinder. He looks me over, takes in the exhaustion in my eyes, the quiet desperation in my stance. "Can you wash dishes?"
I nod. My English is much too broken to speak, but I can understand a bit.
"Good. Can you start now?"
I swallow, nod again. He hands me an apron, and I tie it around my waist with fingers that still remember the ghost of a trigger. The sink is deep, the water scalding, and as I scrub at plates smeared with grease, I try to imagine that this is enough. That surviving is enough.
But the war inside me does not believe in peace. And some nights, when the city quiets and the cold creeps in, I wonder if I will ever stop fighting.
And now, here in America, where the streets aren't lined with gold but with trash and tired men who look like me, I wonder if safety is just another lie I was fed.
Bella said it would be perfect. "You'll love it here," she had promised, her eyes bright with certainty. "A fresh start." I had believed her. I needed to believe her. But now, as I scavenge for work like a starving dog, I feel something ugly growing inside me – a bitterness curling around my ribs, tightening. She lied.
And yet, Bella is all I have. The only warmth in this cold, gray city. The only person who makes the world feel less cruel, less indifferent. When she smiles at me, the resentment ebbs, replaced by something else, something dangerous. I love her. I love her more than I should, more than I can afford to. Because if she ever leaves – if I lose her, too – then what will be left of me?
The memories still creep in, no matter how far I run. Some nights, I wake up gasping, prying my eyelids open to wake myself from the unmistakable echo of gunfire, still smelling the burnt metal and blood. Other nights, I dream of Qianqian – of her lips, her kind, gentle eyes, of her soft hands that would caress mine as I cried on her shoulder. These nights are when I sleep the best.
In the mornings, Bella touches my face gently, asks if I slept well. I tell her yes. I lie, too.
I may be the son of the sun, but I crave the illusion the night brings when the sun sets.
I saw her today. A few times. In the crowd, in the blur of moving bodies, a glimpse of a face I once loved. My breath catches, my body stiffens as if bracing for impact.
She is everywhere.
I see her in the woman sitting across from me on the train, head tilted as if she is about to speak. I see her in the girl sweeping the floor of the noodle shop, strands of hair falling loose from a fraying ponytail. I see her in the reflection of a storefront window, in the flicker of a passing shadow. But when I blink, she is gone, leaving only the unbearable sounds of a name I cannot say aloud.
I miss her in ways I do not have words for. Not just her touch, though I ache for that too. I miss the warmth of her fingers as she poured tea, the press of her palm against my wrist when she wanted me to stay. I miss the quiet things, the way she hummed under her breath when she was deep in thought, the way she smelled of soap and rain, the way she would laugh at me for being too serious, too afraid.
She used to laugh at me when I told her I would take her away from it all. "And where would we go, Taihan?" she had teased, voice full of something I could never quite name. "The war is everywhere. You can't outrun the world."
But I had tried. And she had stayed behind.
Now, she is a ghost that refuses to leave me. Some nights, I wish for Qianqian once again. I hear her voice in my dreams, calling my name in the way she might've done if she had been there when I received Bella's letter. Perhaps she would have begged me to stay. But then again, I doubt even her pleas would've been enough to stop me.
In my dreams, I do not answer. I never do. Because if I turn around, if I see her as she was in the end, I think I will shatter into something that cannot be put back together.
Bella senses it, though she does not say anything. She watches me sometimes, eyes searching, as if she can see the past clinging to me like a second skin. I want to tell her that she is my present, my future, that I love her more than the ghosts that chase me.
I struggle to accept that love is not an exorcism. It does not erase what came before. And Qianqian – she was before everything.
The city moves around me, indifferent. I keep walking, hands shoved deep into my pockets, shoulders hunched against a cold that has nothing to do with the weather. I do not look into windows. I do not meet the eyes of passing strangers. Because I know, if I do, I will see her again.
I swallow the bitterness deep in my throat, tasting it like bile. It is a sickness I cannot cure.
America was supposed to be the cure. The place where I could become someone new, where the past could loosen its grip on my throat. But now I see it for what it is – a different kind of battlefield. The weapons are different here, duller maybe, but just as cruel. Rejection slips instead of bullets. Empty promises instead of landmines. The slow, grinding war of survival, where every morning is a battle to believe in something other than despair.
Some days, I think of writing to my mother. I imagine the careful curve of her characters, the weight of her words. Are you happy? she would ask. And what would I tell her? That I have traded one hunger for another? That I walk past butcher shops and inhale deeply, as if I can fool my stomach into thinking I have eaten? That the American Dream is not golden or even gilded, but rusted and corroded at the edges.
When I arrive home, Bella is waiting for me. I glower at her, looking so prim and proper while I've been sweating in the grueling restaurant all day. Bella watches me from across the room, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line. The dim light of our cramped apartment flickers against her face, sharpening the shadows beneath her eyes. I can feel her expectant gaze.
"You've been distant," she says, voice soft. "Tell me what's wrong."
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the frayed edge of the couch cushion. I don't want to say it. I shouldn't say it. But Qianqian's absence has been crushing me, and I am too tired to carry it alone.
"I miss her," I whisper, barely audible. But Bella hears it. She always hears what she's not supposed to.
Her expression doesn't change, but something in the air shifts, turns sharp like the edge of a blade. "Who?"
"You know who."
"Qianqian. Of course."
I nod, ashamed, unable to meet her eyes. Her tone is unreadable, and I cannot bear myself to look up at her to see her expression. "I just need to know how she is. If she's safe. I need to hear from her, just once. A letter, anything. Please, Bella. She doesn't even know where I am. She probably thinks… she probably thinks I was in an accident."
She exhales slowly, deliberately, like she's savoring my desperation. "You need to hear from her? Are you serious, Taihan? After everything I've done for you? After bringing you here, giving you a future – giving you me – you still want her?"
"It's not like that," I insist, though the words feel hollow. "I love you. You know I do. But I can't just pretend she never existed."
"You don't have to pretend. But you do have to move on. That's what we agreed, isn't it? A fresh start." She steps closer, placing a hand on my cheek, her touch featherlight but suffocating. "Unless you're telling me you lied? That you never meant it when you said you wanted a new life?"
I close my eyes, guilt washing over me like a tide. She's right, isn't she? I told her I wanted to leave it all behind. I let her believe she was enough. And yet, every time I close my eyes, I see Qianqian's face. Every time Bella kisses me, I taste regret.
"I don't know what I meant," I admit, voice hoarse. "I don't know what I want anymore."
Her fingers dig into my jaw, forcing me to look at her. "You want me, Taihan. You love me. That's what you said."
I swallow hard. "I do."
She studies me for a moment, then laughs – a slow, deliberate sound that sends a chill down my spine. "Then prove it. Forget about her."
"I can't."
"You will."
I shake my head, but she steps even closer, her breath warm against my skin. "You don't get to have both of us, Taihan," she murmurs. "You don't get to lie in my bed at night and dream about another woman. That's not how this works."
She's right again. I am a hypocrite. I tell myself I love Bella, but I ache for Qianqian. I tell myself I've moved on, but my heart is still buried in the past.
"Do you think she's waiting for you?" Bella presses, her voice turning cruel. "Do you think she spends her nights crying over you, pining for the man who left her behind? No, Taihan. She's gone. She moved on the moment you walked away."
I flinch as if struck. "You don't know that."
"I do." Her fingers slide down my chest, slow and possessive. "Because I know women like her. The moment you left, she found someone else. Someone who didn't hesitate. Someone who didn't need to beg for scraps of affection."
The thought makes my stomach twist. Qianqian in another man's arms, laughing, happy, free. I should want that for her. I should want her to be safe, to be loved. But all I feel is burning jealousy, shame curling in my gut like a sickness.
Bella smiles, seeing the war in my eyes. "See? It hurts, doesn't it? Now imagine how I feel, knowing you're still thinking about her while you're with me."
I reach for her, desperate to erase the doubt between us, to bury the guilt before it consumes me whole. "I'm sorry, Bella. I don't want to hurt you."
She allows me to touch her, but only just. "Then stop," she breathes. "Stop looking for something that doesn't exist anymore."
I want to. I want to be the man she needs me to be. But the past is a chain around my throat, tightening every time I try to move forward.
She kisses me then, hard and unforgiving, as if she can mold me into something new, something that belongs only to her. And for a moment, I let her. Because maybe she's right. Maybe Qianqian is gone. Maybe the only thing I have left is this woman who refuses to let me drown.
But in the quiet, when the city sleeps and Bella lies tangled in the sheets beside me, I know the truth.
I will never stop searching for Qianqian.
And Bella will never forgive me for it.
I wake up before dawn breaks the horizon, when there isn't a single trace of light that breaks through the window. The city is sleeping, all is quiet.
To my surprise, the space next to my bed is empty. The sheets are set as straight as they could, the pillow left back at the head of the bed. Bella is gone.
In many ways, I'm not surprised. Bella probably has her own luxurious house, she has no use spending her time in this bland, empty space.
Something feels wrong.
The silence is thick, unnatural. Even in America, where everything is foreign and too large and too loud, there is always noise: cars on the street, voices murmuring through paper-thin walls. But inside this apartment, there is nothing.
I sit up, the blanket sliding off me. My body feels stiff, uneasy. I listen.
A faint rustling.
I push myself out of bed, my bare feet meeting the cool floor as I make my way toward the sound. The hallway stretches long and dim, the moonlight from the window casting sharp shadows against the walls. My pulse thrums as I follow the noise, step by step, until I reach the bathroom door.
It's open.
Bella is inside.
She is hunched over the counter, digging through a makeup bag, her fingers shaking as she rummages.
"Bella?" My voice comes out hoarse.
She jolts, her head snapping up, her entire body going rigid. Something clatters to the floor, a small black compact, its lid popping open.
And then, I see her. And the sight makes my mouth drop.
I see all of her.
The face I once thought was perfect, sculpted by the hands of deities, is wrong.
Her skin is uneven, blotchy with an unnatural grayish tinge under the fluorescent light. Without layers of powder, I see the discoloration, the dark patches under her eyes, the slight shadow of a mustache above her lip. Her nose, once so sharp and delicate, looks swollen at the bridge, the faintest sign of scar tissue at the base. Her cheeks are hollow, sunken in a way that makes her look sickly, almost skeletal. And her lips – God, her lips.
Thin, cracked, chapped at the edges. Not the full, plush red ones she painted on every morning with careful precision.
Her eyebrows are sparse, unevenly drawn on, and her eyelashes – there are no eyelashes. Without the thick mascara, her eyes look beady, almost sunken into her face.
She looks old. Not in the way age graces people with wisdom and softness, but in the way desperation ages a person. The way someone who has spent too long pretending, too long painting over their flaws, is finally caught without their mask.
And she knows it.
Her eyes widen, her hands scrambling to grab something to cover herself. A pair of sunglasses. She snatches them up, shoving them onto her face so fast they sit crooked on her nose.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
"What are you doing?" I manage to choke out.
Her jaw tightens. "Nothing."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm just stepping out," she says, too quickly, too defensively.
"At this hour?"
She glares at me, and for the first time since I met her, she looks ugly. Not just physically, though God knows the illusion has shattered completely. Her beauty was always something untouchable, something that made her seem effortless, almost divine. But now, all I see is the truth.
She's just a woman. A woman with uneven features, with too much pride, with a desperate need to be something she's not.
And suddenly, I understand.
She was never real.
Not the beauty, not the charm, not the fantasy I had built around her. The woman I left everything for, the woman I convinced myself was the key to a better life – she was nothing but smoke and mirrors.