I stood in my room, the medals glinting faintly in the soft light streaming through the window.
Each one bore testament to countless hours of dedication, sweat, and passion—a quiet rebellion against the monotony of expectations.
Yet, my parents' words echoed in my mind, louder than the clinking of the medals in my trembling hands.
"Enjoyment is a luxury."
"Wasting time."
"No real value."
The sharp pang of disappointment twisted in my chest, transforming into something heavier: anger.
I clenched my jaw and stared at the medals, daring myself to cry but refusing to let the tears fall. Crying felt like an indulgence I couldn't afford, another weakness I was sure they'd scoff at.
A soft knock on my door startled me. I quickly set the medals on the shelf, straightening my posture as if that could disguise the turmoil I felt.
"Taryn? Your food for dinner is ready," my grandmother called. Her voice was calm, even, but it carried the usual air of expectation that hung over every interaction in this house.
"I'll be down in a minute," I replied, forcing my voice to stay steady.
When I walked downstairs, the scent of the chicken stew and freshly baked rolls should have been comforting, but instead, it churned in my stomach like a storm. I kept my head down, pushing a roll around my plate, trying to tune out Devon's overly animated explanation of his new gaming strategy.
"So, the trick is," Devon said, gesturing with his spoon, "you have to time your moves perfectly. Like, milliseconds-perfect. Most people don't even know the shortcut exists, but I've been practicing, and—"
"You've been practicing missing every grape toss tonight," Jia cut in, smirking as she reached across the table to steal a roll off his plate.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Big sister Jia," Devon replied, pretending to look offended as he grabbed her glass of water in retaliation. "Maybe you should admit that deep down, you wish you had my gaming skills."
"And deep down," I murmured under my breath, though no one seemed to hear, "I wish you two didn't make dinner feel like a circus."
My grandparents' silence loomed at the other end of the table. Grandpa was fiddling with his tablet, tapping the screen with the kind of focus he reserved for things that mattered to him—unlike my track meet or anything else I brought up.
Grandma sat with her hands folded neatly on the table, her gaze occasionally darting between us, calculating every word spoken and action taken, though she rarely said much.
The rest of dinner passed in a blur, the chatter around me fading into background noise as I stared at my untouched roll, my appetite long gone.
Later that evening, the anger bubbling inside me became unbearable. Instead of taking a hot shower, I grabbed my running shoes and jacket, slipping out the door without bothering to tell anyone where I was going.
I remember that the nearest children's park wasn't far from home. As kids, my siblings and I had spent countless afternoons here, but it was different now—lonely, almost ghostly in the absence of laughter and play.
The cool night air hit me like a slap, but it was exactly what I needed. My feet moved automatically; running had always been my escape—a way to outrun the noise in my head and the expectations that weighed me down. But tonight, even the rhythmic pounding of my footsteps couldn't drown out the frustration.
My lungs burned, and my muscles screamed, but I welcomed the pain—it was tangible, something I could feel and control.
I tightened my ponytail and took off, pushing my body harder with each stride.
As I slowed to a stop, gasping for air. I plopped onto a bench near the swings and buried my face in my hands, hoping the cool night breeze would clear my head.
"Taryn?"
I looked up sharply, my heart skipping a beat. Zichen was standing a few feet away, his brow furrowed in concern.
He was holding a bag of takeout, which made the scene feel almost absurd.
"Zichen?" I said, my voice tinged with surprise. "What are you doing here?"
He gestured toward the swings with a slight smile. "I like coming here after dinner. Clears my head. What about you?"
"Same, I guess. I just... needed to get out for a bit."
Zichen studied me for a moment before sitting on the bench beside me, setting the takeout bag on the ground. "Rough day?"
I let out a bitter laugh. "Something like that."
He didn't press me for details, and I was grateful for the silence that followed.
I noticed that Zichen reached down to pull something out of the takeout bag. "Want some fries? They're still warm."
His offer caught me off guard, and I couldn't help but laugh. "
Are you serious?"
"Completely," he said, holding the bag out to me. "Nothing cures a bad day like fries."
Shaking my head, I reached into the bag and grabbed a few. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet, here you are eating my fries," he teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.
For a while, we sat there, eating in companionable silence, the tension in my chest slowly fading. Somehow, in the stillness of the park and the quiet company of someone who wasn't trying to fix me, the world did feel smaller—just for a little while.
By the time Zichen's phone buzzed with a reminder that it was getting late, we stood to leave, and he glanced at me, his expression serious.
"Take care of yourself, Taryn," he said softly.
I watched him go, the faint crunch of his footsteps fading into the night.
"Take care of yourself, Zichen," I replied but I know he did not hear it.
As I made my way back home, my thoughts were flooded with moments like this one—small, quiet, and unexpectedly meaningful. Zichen hadn't looked at me like I was falling short of some expectation.
He just… saw me. Sitting there on that bench, sharing fries and quiet moments.
By the time I reached the front door of the house, the weight in my chest had shifted—not gone entirely.
As I stepped inside, the house was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. I crept up the stairs, careful not to wake anyone, and paused for a moment outside my room.