Rehearsal

Despite the hum of the air conditioning, the room was warm and the air felt stale, carrying the faint scent of sweat.

The heavy curtains along the side of the auditorium were drawn halfway, and the late afternoon light fell in narrow stripes across the floor.

On the stage stood a few simple wooden benches and beside them lay colorful lengths of fabric that would later serve as scenery.

Several sheets of paper rested along the edge of the stage, marked with scene titles, role assignments, and brief stage directions.

“Good,” the teacher said, clapping her hands once.

She picked up one of the papers and read aloud.

“Next up is Lin Yi-yun with the piece After School.”

Yi-yun stepped forward onto the stage and raised her gaze.

She was playing a girl waiting alone for the bus after class.

Not a big role. No dramatic plot.

Just a monologue about exhaustion, about days that felt too long, and about the quiet uncertainty of not knowing what one actually wanted.

For the first time, she had not just more than a few lines, but even her own short solo piece, exactly as the summer workshop intended, to give each participant a chance to be seen individually.

She spoke calmly.

Not loudly, but clearly.

Yi-yun wasn’t quite sure why, but she imagined that every word carried weight, that none of them should be rushed.

As she performed, she didn’t think about her teacher, or exams, or the others, or anything else that usually crowded her thoughts.

She thought only about what she had to say. And how she had to say it.

When she finished, there was a brief moment of silence.

“Thank you,” the teacher said at last. “That was… very solid.”

Her tone wasn’t effusive, but there was something openly impressed in it.

A few of the other club members glanced over at Yi-yun.

“That was amazing,” one girl whispered from the side of the stage. “Have you done anything like that before?”

Yi-yun shook her head. “No… not really.”

“You’re a natural,” a boy beside her said, sounding more surprised than admiring.

Her ears grew warm.

She didn’t know what to say, so she just smiled awkwardly and stepped back.

During the regular school year, she had usually gone unnoticed in her club activities, reciting lines with the group, standing farther back, making sure not to draw attention.

Now, it seemed her voice suddenly had space.

The rehearsal continued, but she only half listened to the next scenes. 

Something inside her felt unexpectedly calmer, as though playing another person had quieted the restless voices inside her own head.

Later, as she was packing up her things, two other club members approached her.

“We’re going to grab some bubble tea and hang out for a bit,” one of them said. “Do you want to join us?”

Yi-yun hesitated, even though the invitation pleased her.

“Thanks, but I… already have plans,” she said. “Another time. Sorry.”

She said goodbye and left the auditorium and the school grounds.

Outside, the air had grown heavy and humid, while dense clouds hung low in the sky.

Yi-yun walked slowly down the street, her thoughts drifting to a phone call from a few days earlier.

To Shu-fen’s voice, calm and unhurried, as always.

It doesn’t run away, she had said.

Some things simply need to wait.

At the time, Yi-yun had struggled to accept that, but the words had stayed with her, steadying her more than she had expected.

Of course she had been looking forward to yet another summer in Pinglin.

To the quiet. The conversations. The time with her grandmother.

To the ending of the story she still didn’t know.

But it didn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

The workshop, the rehearsal and the casual words from the others, all of it had settled something inside her, something she hadn’t known was there.

And now she had room for other things, too.

“Hey, Yi-yun! There you are!”

Ya-ting called out from several meters away as she recognized her.

She was standing with two other girls from their class in front of a 24-Eleven: Ya-wen (雅雯) and Pei-shan (佩珊).

“Hey guys,” Yi-yun greeted them quietly.

They started walking together without any real destination, letting the street carry them along. 

They talked about small things, who was going where, who had nothing planned, who was bored.

Yi-yun listened, laughed at the right moments, though her thoughts drifted now and then.

Eventually, Ya-wen said almost casually, “I heard Chen Zhi-hao has an important game today…”

Yi-yun felt something tighten inside her.

“Can we go?” Pei-shan asked immediately.

“Why not,” Ya-ting said. “Some people from his class are there too, I think. And it’s not like we have anything better to do.”

She nudged Ya-wen with a grin.

“Don’t pretend, Ya-wen. You just want to see Chen.”

Ya-wen’s face flushed instantly.

“T-that’s not true!” she protested. “It’s just… it’s a selection game. It’s important for him. About training and funding and stuff. I just thought it might be interesting.”

The others laughed, and before Yi-yun could say anything, they were already moving as if it had already been decided.

Yi-yun went along and told herself she didn’t care.

The baseball field wasn’t far away, an ordinary place they all knew without ever really noticing.

Parents sat on the concrete steps. Older men in caps. Teenagers with backpacks.

A group of girls from Chen’s class had gathered together, calling his name again and again.

Yi-yun sat down beside her friends, the concrete warm beneath them.

“There he is!” Pei-shan said, pointing.

Chen sat in the dugout, his cap pulled low, shoulders tense.

No laughing.

No waving.

He didn’t look up at the stands where his name was being shouted, or at least he made sure not to.

“He looks kinda… not very happy,” Yi-yun said quietly, more to herself than to anyone else.

“Oh, that’s just concentration,” Ya-wen replied quickly.

Yi-yun didn’t answer.

She remembered snapping at him the last time they’d spoken, turning away on purpose when he’d tried to say something.

Back then, it had felt right, but now she wasn’t so sure why.

Soon she realized this wasn’t a game played just for fun.

When Chen’s turn came up, the cheering grew louder, but he never lifted his head.

Yi-yun hadn’t expected him to look up and seeing her, and yet there was that small, foolish feeling, as though she might have hoped he would.

His movements were precise, almost rigid.

There was no hesitation and the hit was clean.

Not spectacular, but good enough.

The coach gave a short nod, nothing more.

Between innings, several men moved along the edge of the field and wrote things down, pointed at players, spoke quietly among themselves.

Including Chen.

Yi-yun felt a sudden sting she didn’t want to name.

Does he even want this, or is it something others have already decided for him?, she wondered and startled at how the thought felt like concern.

The game ended without any grand finale.

The participants simply stayed together, drinking water, listening to instructions.

After that Chen simply disappeared almost without a sound, as Yi-yun watched him go.

The girls waited a moment, then stood up.

“Hm… kind of less exciting than I expected,” Ya-ting said.

“That’s probably because it was just a selection, not a real game,” Pei-shan replied.

“Come on guys,” she added. “I feel like cong you bing.”

No one objected, and they set off again.

Only Yi-yun lagged behind slightly, turning her head back one last time.

By chance, she saw Chen standing near the roadside beside the field, next to a large, expensive-looking car.

An older woman in a sharp business outfit took the driver’s seat, while he got in the back.

They did not speak.

Is that his mother? Yi-yun wondered, noticing how distant Chen’s expression seemed.

And as she hurried after her friends, she thought, just for a moment, about whether she might say something different next time she saw him.

But she only knew that she didn’t have to know it yet.