Intervals

Classes had not yet begun, and the hallways of Minquan High were already filled with voices.

Lockers slammed open and shut, laughter echoed somewhere, and footsteps rang across the polished floor.

Yi-yun walked toward her classroom at an even pace, her bag slung loosely over one shoulder, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

She knew she stood out.

She was used to the way people’s eyes lingered on her, hurriedly turned away, only to drift back to her again moments later.

Soft whispers followed her wherever she went.

Because today, she was actually here.

Her reflection in one of the dark windowpanes looked flawless: her hair carefully styled, her makeup subtle yet precise, her uniform fitting so naturally it seemed part of her.

Everything about her appeared perfect, and that, more than anything, seemed to draw attention.

When she stepped into the classroom, the conversations fell silent for a brief moment.

“Oh,” someone whispered. “She’s here.”

A few heads turned toward her.

Some faces, especially the boys’, brightened, others looked curious, others cool.

Two boys in the back row openly watched her without bothering to hide it.

Yi-yun went to her seat, pulled out the chair, and sat down.

“You’re hardly ever here anymore,” a girl across from her remarked, half joking, half serious. “Is that even allowed?”

A soft ripple of laughter passed through the room.

“She’s busy,” someone else said. “Commercials, shoots, all that stuff.”

“And she can just skip class like that? Seems kind of unfair.”

Yi-yun said nothing.

She opened her bag and placed her notebook on the desk, as if she hadn’t heard a word.

Her gaze drifted forward automatically.

Diagonally to her left, another seat was empty again.

It belonged to Chen.

By some coincidence, they hadn’t only ended up at the same high school, but even in the same class.

Someone mentioned his name somewhere behind her.

“Isn’t he in Japan right now?”

“Yeah, U-19 preparatory tournament. I think it’s even being broadcast.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” someone said. “Either her seat is empty or his.”

A few people laughed, but Yi-yun didn’t smile.

She let her eyes rest on the empty chair for a moment longer before lowering her gaze to her notebook, while the noise in the room slowly returned.

She didn’t really have friends anymore.

The names that came to mind belonged to another time.

Ya-ting. Pei-shan. Ya-wen.

Except for Ya-wen, they had all transferred to other schools, and even with her, Yi-yun had barely stayed in touch since junior high.

Chen Zhi-hao was the only one she could still talk to somewhat normally, when they were both actually there.

Like it was the case a few months earlier, when she had gone all the way up to the school rooftop during lunch break, as she often did, to eat in peace and away from curious eyes.

᯽᯽᯽

When she stepped outside, she had fully expected to be alone.

The wind was usually strong up there, and most students would never have thought of spending their break on the roof.

Then she saw him.

Chen was sitting on the edge of the concrete ledge, his legs drawn up, a bento box resting on his knees.

He held his chopsticks in his hand and was just about to start eating when he noticed her.

“Oh,” he said. “Yi-yun…”

She hesitated, then stepped closer.

“What are you doing in my spot?” she asked, without really knowing why her tone came out so cool.

He frowned slightly, then his mouth twisted into a crooked smile.

“Your spot?” He tapped the concrete beside him with his fingers. “I always come here.”

She remained standing for a moment, then sat down a short distance away and took her own bento from her bag.

“You’re hardly ever around,” Yi-yun said at last, not looking at him. “But when you are,” she added, “the way people act changes immediately.”

Chen let out a quiet laugh, devoid of amusement.

“I guess that applies to both of us…”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

He was silent for a moment.

“It just is what it is.”

Yi-yun thought about his words.

“People only ever see what they expect from us,” she said then. “And when you just want to talk to them normally, they react kinda…”

“…weird,” Chen finished the sentence.

Yi-yun lifted her head, and their eyes met.

“Yeah,” she murmured softly, as if someone had finally understood what she meant.

Chen smiled and stared out over the rooftops of Taipei.

“Always on the move. Always training. Always someone who thinks they know what’s best for me…”

He sighed.

“It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the opportunity. I know there are plenty of people who would do anything to get this far. But sometimes it feels like I’m being denied a part of myself…”

He looked at Yi-yun, searching her face.

“Is that crazy?”

For a moment, she was speechless at the honesty in his words, as though she hadn’t heard such openness in a long time.

Then she said gently, “No. That’s not crazy at all.”

Chen smiled, visibly relieved.

Their eyes lingered on each other a moment too long, and Yi-yun felt a sudden warmth rise to her face.

She looked away, clearing her throat softly.

“We should eat,” she said. “Break’s almost over.”

He picked up his chopsticks again, his smile still there.

“Yeah. Right…”

The wind died down for a moment, and as they ate, there was something unspoken in the silence between them, something elusive.

Those quiet moments with him had been rare, brief, and unspectacular.

And yet she couldn’t forget them.

᯽᯽᯽

Yi-yun lifted her gaze from her notebook as the murmur of voices in the classroom grew louder again.

She looked once more at Chen’s seat, and knew that such encounters would become even rarer.

Not because they were deliberately drifting apart, but because their days were growing fuller, more tightly scheduled, defined by appointments, training plans, and shooting times.

There was always another place where one was expected.

And less and less room for moments where one could simply be onself.

When Yi-yun finally returned home that afternoon and closed the apartment door behind her, she heard a muffled voice coming from the living room.

She moved slowly closer, until she could make out the words more clearly.

“…I just don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn,” Mei-ling said, her voice calm but tense. “This isn’t about control. It’s about common sense.”

Yi-yun carefully set her bag down and remained silent.

“You can’t stay out there on your own forever,” her mother continued. “We’ve talked about this so many times.”

A pause.

“I’ve already arranged for a new care service. Someone who will come by regularly.”

Yi-yun felt her stomach tighten.

She knew immediately who her mother was talking to and it seemed she didn’t accept the response on the other end.

“No,” Mei-ling said firmly. “This isn’t a request anymore. If you send them away again, then… then you'll leave me no other choice.”

Her voice dropped.

“Then we’ll have to talk about a nursing home. Even if you don’t want to hear it.”

Yi-yun leaned lightly against the wall without realizing it.

She couldn’t hear what Shu-fen said on the other end.

Only the brief pause afterward.

“I’m not doing this to control you,” Mei-ling said. “I’m doing it because it’s necessary. You’re almost eighty! What if you fall? You can barely manage the stairs anymore…”

Shortly afterward, the call ended.

Mei-ling put the phone down and exhaled audibly, then turned and noticed Yi-yun standing in the hallway.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re already home.”

Yi-yun merely nodded, saying nothing.

Her mother shook herself once, as if rearranging her thoughts, then continued, almost too quickly.

“There’s news. I heard back from the production company today.”

She hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

“It looks like you didn’t get the part you auditioned for.”

Yi-yun’s lowered her gaze in slight disappointment.

”Oh... I guess then...”

Her mother interrupted her, inhaling sharply.

“But,” she said, her voice lifting at once, “they want you for the lead instead!”

She laughed, almost breathless.

“The main role, Yi-yun. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Yi-yun’s heart leapt, and for a brief moment she was genuinely happy, her eyes lighting up.

Then something tightened in her chest, and the joy gave way to something else.

“Oh, that's great...”

Mei-ling noticed that something was wrong, and her excitement ebbed away.

”Is something the matter, Yi-yun?”

”Mom? I was thinking… maybe... we could visit Grandma again,” she said at last. “This weekend, or something. I haven’t seen her in so long…”

Mei-ling looked surprised by her daughter’s reaction, then gently shook her head.

“Sorry, darling. That won’t be possible right now,” she said without hesitation. “The Qdrop commercial shoot is this weekend.”

She placed a brief hand on Yi-yun’s shoulder, as she noticed her disappointment.

“This is a crucial moment for you right now. You can’t afford to let it pass.”

Yi-yun sighed, then simply nodded as her mother disappeared into the kitchen, beginning to fill in more dates on the wall calendar.

She wasn’t twelve anymore. She was almost seventeen.

She didn’t argue.

She knew what was expected of her.

And yet...

it seemed to her that her grandmother might be the only one who could truly understand what was going on inside her right now.