Photo by Jingyu Lu
A girl stands next to her father, holding a spinning compass in a dark tunnel.
She spots a light ahead and points to it. They move toward it, slow, uncertain. She reaches out, and at her touch, a vision opens: her much younger self in a world with endless prairies and towns stitched together by highways and long drives.
“My name is Amelia,” a boy her age says.
“But that’s not what it says on your name tag.”
The words hit harder than she expects—sharp and careless. Heat rises up the back of her neck until it blossoms across her cheeks.
She shuts her eyes, missing a sudden flash. When she opens them again, she sees a slightly older version of herself in a classroom surrounded by her classmates. Her teacher is holding a bottle of soy milk—her soy milk.
“Let’s get rid of it, okay?”
She doesn’t argue. The smell is a little different but perhaps it’s too unbearable. All she knows is that it’s too late now. Down the drain it goes, taking something she can’t name with it.
The light dims, and the compass spins—spins—spins. Who is she, really?
She looks at her father for answers but his worn, tired features and sagging shoulders show he’s fighting his own silent, heavy battles. So, she calls herself Amelia Wong. But why does it feel like a mask? One that she’s wearing to believe she is who she says she is.
“Let’s go,” her father suddenly says. The needle twitches and tilts east. “Let’s go to Beijing.”
The spinning continues, but searching rather than panicking. She walks with him toward the east, her footsteps light but uneven as if caught between hesitation and longing.
A light appears again. Just like before, a touch reveals another vision: her older self in a city where history and ambition collide.
She sits at a long table, papers in front of her for a job test. Across from and beside her sit others who look just like her: black hair, careful posture, fluent in English. But—
She turns the paper, and her mind goes blank. The Chinese characters glare on the page like a grim reminder: she’s still not enough. Her chest tightens. Her palms sweat. A sharp, sinking feeling curls in her stomach.
It’s already over.
The flash comes again, too bright, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut.
When she opens them again, she sees herself sitting at a desk, typing furiously on a keyboard where the once unfamiliar has become second nature to her.
She turns and asks, “Kěyǐ fā zuìxīn de wénjiàn gěi wǒ ma?”
The English accent that once plagued her Chinese has nearly vanished, and there’s a growing quiet confidence on her face where uncertainty and doubt once lived.
The light fades, and she looks at her compass. The needle twitches but continues to point east. Then, she says:
“We should go home.”
Together, they walk toward the east, their footsteps quiet and steady.
A light comes on, and she doesn’t hesitate to reach towards it.
Scooters weave between cars with expert ease, the engines buzzing like the pulse of a bustling city. Night markets spill over with life, the air thick with the scent of grilled squid, stinky tofu, and sweet drinks.
“Can you introduce yourself?”
“My name is Amelia Wong.” Then, with a smile that feels earned, she adds, “Or, you can call me Wong Xinyi.”
A flash comes, but she doesn’t flinch.
This time, she stands steady as her father hands her a bottle of soy milk—cold against her palm—and a new compass, steady and still.
Annie Chen is a Taiwanese-Canadian writer who spent her childhood in Canada and now lives in Asia. She spends her time working in tech, writing her debut novel, exercising, or gaming—usually managing three out of four.