No Subject

Dear James,

I am writing because I feel like it. I am writing to talk to you, though knowing that words always fail us. I am writing to go back to the time at the gun range in Sacramento, when you let me try the unwieldy rifle I cannot even remember the name of, when I, not even in the right position, shot right into the wall. The shell bounced back and left a huge hole in the silhouette, and we both laughed. But after that, you said a few times, “You didn't let me record you.” The truth is, I didn’t want to be, and I didn’t know you wanted to.

Now I think of that mix of joy and disappointment in your eyes, how it was not my crappy shooting that shook you, but the fact that I did not want to own a tangible memory of us together. I am writing in the hope that you will understand that it has always been hard for me to express myself, and at that time I thought I could never lose any memory in my mind.

They say there are twelve seasons in the Bay, but I was only there for about three of them. In late summer, I was fortunate to watch from Sausalito the fog slowly rolling in from the ocean, dressing the Golden Gate Bridge in a white veil. Moisture evaporates from the ocean surface over hundreds, even thousands of miles of the open Pacific and is carried to California from all directions, condensing into fog. Yet it fails to extend eastward, halted by the inland winds that push it back toward the sea. It’s as if the fog sets its boundaries itself, an invisible line it cannot cross.

I sometimes felt the winds too, in Davis. I took Intro to Lit at UC Davis every Monday to Thursday during the early summer, and I would always walk across the quad to my favorite taqueria off-campus for lunch. Past the proselytizers and protestors, the wind would blow through my shirt and the leaves, and I would feel the rare coolness of the air on my skin. It was far from the suffocating humidity in my hometown, and it seemed surprising how the wind, gentle and yet forceful, fleeting and yet lasting, could be so contrasting from time to time, from place to place. You have already heard about that from me. Still, I am writing to tell you again.

I leaned back against the worn Amtrak seat on the last train running from San Jose to Sacramento, delayed due to technical issues. The train almost empty, I stared at my other self trapped outside the window, distorted. I could see the reflection of the reflection and, through the other side, the reflection of that reflected reflection, and so on, until I could see nothing but the silent dark. It was not empty, though. The faintest outline of the semi-deserted warehouses, the dim streetlights that emulated shooting stars, the occasional Toyota that passed by—all of them were there, running from my right shoulder to my left, from the front to the back of the train, and then back again.

There was nothing new to see through the kaleidoscope-like window, so I reread Toni Morrison’s Recitatif. It was from the literature course, where I learned about the story in the context of the racial ambiguity of the two main characters. The truth was always there, but it was not always the same for everyone, since memories are malleable and not always shared. I thought of how I had been elusive, leaving no trace of myself in the memories of others, or myself, as I'm still hoping that you will not comprehend what I have been and will be writing to convey.

The train crossed the Carquinez Strait, heading northeast into the plains along the I-80. Soon, if it were in the morning, the fog would cease to exist there, and the spinning wind turbines across the bay would be visible at the horizon. And I really do envy those early-morning commuters. Let's start again, shall we? Only this time, I will try my best to be more straightforward.

Dear James,

I am writing because I cannot express myself well when speaking. I am writing because I want to stay organized, to be able to consider my words. I am writing because I miss the fog that day I helped you move, so thick I could not see the road ahead. You drove us from Palo Alto to a Chinese restaurant somewhere around Richmond, where we had dinner together with your family. Your father is from the same city as I am, and I remember he started the conversation by asking whether I could speak the dialect. I couldn’t, and I still can’t, because neither of my parents are from there and I had not been taught to speak even a word of it. Fortunately, the dialect does not require too much effort to understand for Mandarin speakers, and we continued the conversation with him speaking in dialect and me in Mandarin. It still strikes me as odd that your father, who left his hometown two decades ago, had not lost the accent, while I, who had always been there, could not even grasp the basic tones of that language.

I used to wonder what it was like when humanity sought to touch the heavens with the Tower of Babel, only to have their languages confounded, leaving them unable to understand one another. Sometimes, it feels as though we are living in our own Babel, words failing us, meanings lost in translation between hearts. Language isn’t just a collection of words; it’s the aroma of premade spices from a family kitchen, the lullabies I used to hear at night as a child, the red-painted festivals that enliven the streets. It is culture embodied, a connection that ties us to our roots and to each other—a bridge between souls arching over the chasms of time and experience.

But the bridge was not always there. Back in Davis, once a week, late at night, I would walk thirty minutes from my apartment to downtown, where I would buy my favorite ice cream from a local shop and then to In-N-Out for the fries. Most of my friends, including you, did not like the fries there. They did not use any peanut oil, which you were allergic to. Still, you said they were too greasy, too salty, too unhealthy. But I did love them, and I would always request extra salt and extra spread. Then I sat on the curb beside the gas station, enjoying my food while watching the neon lights of the gas price sign flicker on and off. I did not feel lonely, but it would have been better if I had someone to share the moment with. But no one was there, and even if they were, they would not like the fries.

During dinner, your father bragged about your regular fishing trips together, showing me photos of you holding a fish as big as your arm. I imagined how the scales shimmered in the sunlight, each one reflecting fragments of a day spent in quiet communion with the sea. I have never been fishing, but I could somehow picture the first time I would be startled by the wildly spinning reel and fumble to regain control. You would laugh, not out of mockery, but with genuine joy. Together, we would pull in the catch—a modest fish, but to me, it would be monumental. I know this because that was what happened at the gun range, when I held the gun you handed me. And I realized how lucky you had always been.

It was already dark and foggy when we left the restaurant for your home. The Oakland Bay Bridge was barely visible, its towering arches swallowed by the mist, the very connection between two shores erased. There was fog everywhere, blurring, the lights of the city muted. I could see the outline of the cranes at the port, skeletal giants reaching into obscurity, their rigid forms contrasting the shifting vapors around them. Ghostly silhouettes of the ships docked at the piers, vessels anchored yet adrift, silent streetlights stretching ahead. Everything was slowly disappearing into the unknown in that fog.

I was at the Los Angeles airport, waiting for my flight back to my hometown. The night before, I arrived there late from Sacramento. The terminal was a mosaic of weary travelers and flickering screens, each announcing departures and arrivals like the beats of an endless metronome. Amidst the hum of countless footsteps and muted conversations, I found the famous In-N-Out tucked away at the corner of the airport. It felt almost poetic to have my last meal in California be the same fries I savored alone in Davis. I ordered them just the way I liked—extra salt and extra spread—and sat by a large window overlooking the sleeping planes.

Just two days before that, we made egg tarts from scratch together in your kitchen. The recipe was simple, yet the process became an adventure of its own. Flour dusted the countertops like fresh snow, and the sweet aroma of custard filled the air. We laughed at our amateur attempts—the uneven crusts, the filling that bubbled over. One tart even emerged with an abnormal bump on its golden surface, a flaw that made it uniquely ours. We both took a bite of that one, declaring it the best despite its imperfection. In that moment, I felt a connection that words could never capture.

The next morning, we had breakfast in front of the TV, watching a food show that explores the culinary delights around the Bay Area. One of the guests, a pescatarian, was introducing a new dish at a local restaurant and you said, “He sounds so gay.” I found it surprising that you could tell someone’s sexual orientation from their voice, especially when I thought he was just talking as someone from the Valley. I chuckled and said, “Maybe he’s just passionate about what he does.” You glanced at me with a knowing smile and replied, “Or perhaps he's sharing more than just his love for food.”

I looked at you then, really looked, noticing the way the soft morning light accentuated the contours of your face. Silence is a language of its own, I thought.

We finished our breakfast in comfortable quietude, the clatter of dishes and the distant hum of the city filling the space between us. It was one of those moments where everything felt aligned, yet fragile, as if the slightest disturbance could unsettle the delicate balance.

But it was time for me to head out.

When I talk in my sleep, there is a rhythm, through the seasons, through the years. It resonates with my heartbeat, creating a brand-new world from scratch, bit by bit: a world where the fog never lifts, where the wind never ceases, where the memories never fade. And then—

I am reborn, in the operating room of the Children’s Hospital, crying. That is when time starts to elapse, when the neurons start to fire, when the memories start to form. That is when I start to live, to breathe, to be. As the sterile scent of antiseptics envelops me, the hum of machines becomes the first symphony of my existence. The surgeons move with purpose, their hands orchestrating a delicate dance, stitching together the fragile threads of my being.

During those initial moments, each sound and feeling is intensified—the steady beeping of the heart monitor matching my heartbeat, the gentle voices merging into a soothing melody, the refreshing feel of air on the baby’s skin. It feels like the universe is greeting me with open arms, urging me to join in its never-ending narrative, or maybe the universe is simply a product of my own mind, a fantasy within a fantasy.

The room then collapses, folding in on itself and unfolding into a new reality. I stumble out of the glass doors, into a vast golden field of rapeseed. Above me, the heavens ripple like liquid mercury, clouds swirling into fantastical shapes—dragons breathing stars, phoenixes rising from the ashes of forgotten dreams. The sun hangs low, casting elongated shadows that dance and twist in harmony with the inaudible melody only my soul can hear. Time here is fluid, a river meandering through landscapes of memory.

I have thought about the possibility of me being you, James, because life is so short compared to anything. In this realm, identities blur and merge, where my essence intertwines with yours like ivy climbing an ancient oak. Just like the last night before I departed, we lay in bed, completely silent. But I could still hear you cry. And in the mirror, I saw your face.

A fog in summer. A loaded rifle. A silhouette. A box of fries without salt or peanut oil. A twenty-one-year-old photograph. A PrEP pill. An American, then an Asian.

Your face a boy just turned twenty. A certificate from the Children’s Hospital. An F-1 visa sponsored by the International Student Office. A round-trip ticket from the United Airlines. A pair of black-rimmed glasses.

A photo never taken. A word never dared to be spoken. An abnormal bump on our yellowish homemade egg tart, of which we both took a bite. A wyd? A hbu? A night night.

A boop. An I’ll miss you. A smile. And I am back at Jack London Square, the station where we first met. It is 10 p.m. The train from San Jose to Sacramento is running late. It is cloudy at night, but the fog is nowhere to be seen. The station is empty, save for a few pigeons pecking at the crumbs left by the morning commuters. And we sit together on the bench, waiting for the train to arrive.

“It’s interesting how different cultures express time differently,” you bring up suddenly, “like how you Chinese put the year before the month and the day, while we Americans do the opposite.”

I nod, but I do not say anything because I am not really paying attention. I am thinking about the time when we first met, how you have been so eager to show me around Oakland. I am thinking about why it is always cloudy if there is no fog, and why the pigeons are so fat. And after I board the train, I am so lost in my thoughts that I do not even wave goodbye through the tainted window upstairs when the train starts to move. I lean back against the worn seat, and that is when I receive an emoji from you, a smiling face with a tear.

Please forgive me, James, but I need to start this again.

Dear James,

I am writing because...

Best wishes,

Charley