Ya-Ting Yu
​

‘Look down, down.’ I dipped my chin, fixed my eyes on the peach-tiled pavement outside a teppanyaki restaurant.
 

It was the hazy hour between wandering schoolchildren giggling home and tired office workers, thumbs scrolling mindlessly on their phones at the crossroads. At this hour, on this street of the neighbourhood, pedestrians were scarce. The restaurant still had an ‘In Preparation’ sign on the door—a detail I’d normally notice. Not today. Like the office workers, I stayed glued to my screen, convincing myself the world behind its six-inch display was more real than the tiles beneath my feet.
 

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’
 

His voice was crisp, unmasked. I answered like a pre-recorded message. Only then did I register him. An oversized hoodie and baggy trousers swish-swashing against his small frame, flapping like a bird’s wings. Shoes too big, soles thinning from daily treading. Just as I expected polite small talk, the kind you forget as soon as you walk away, his footsteps were already behind me. Brisk. No lingering. He crossed the pavement, turned, and vanished into the shadowed alley. If someone across the street had seen me frozen mid-step, neck craned at an impossible angle, they might have mistaken me for a woman chasing a partner who had long since ended things. But it wasn’t longing that held me there.
 

I dropped my phone into my coat pocket, wool, scratchy, one I’d bought from the UK. Around my neck, lambswool: warm, burning, as hot as chocolate cupped in my hands. I didn’t need to read the label to know it was made in the Scottish Highlands.
 

Funny how I could recall details like these but not when the distance between us stretched. From one peachy tile to the next, my eyes traced their pattern, widening until they yielded to the asphalt road. It wasn’t you. It was me. These material comforts made me uneasy. I lowered my head, snuggling my nose into the delicate fabric, and tried to forget. On the pavement, my legs dragged, my heart, a weight struggling to breathe. The air wasn’t cold, just damp.
 

In Taipei, even in winter, this hour’s daylight was sufficient for children to swing in the park. I passed several, their school uniforms streaked with dirt. The bold characters on their backs spelt out my primary school’s name—on a uniform I no longer recognised. An updated, more modern design. Once, he and I had worn the same ones. On PE days, we dressed in cloud-white and sky-blue sweatsuits, as if the colours made us good weather charms. Indoors, we switched to a darker shade, like bulk blue pens. Collared shirts, pleated skirts, sleek trousers. Every stitch, every fold, once meant to instil discipline and academic success, now reminded me of nights falling asleep, cheeks stuck to textbook pages.
 

Schoolchildren screeched. A burst of laughter rang out in the distance. I slowed, mouthing ‘Hi’ into the air, as if testing whether it still fit.
 

Had we ever greeted each other in the classroom? I narrowed my eyes behind thin metal glasses, as if muscle tension sharpened memory. No, we weren’t in the same social group. In fact, neither of us had one. During recess, I rarely left my chair except for the bathroom. My seat by the window felt like a safety nest. If the classroom emptied, I took out my romance manga after finishing homework. I spoke little, shielding myself like an egg, refusing to hatch. And you, where did you sit? The unlucky draw by the bins. Every term, I prayed to be as far from them as possible, not because of the stench (food waste was cleared by nap time) but to avoid classmates who chattered each time they tossed their rubbish. You didn’t seem to mind, always responding in a chirpy voice, as if the world was as fair as it was round.
 

‘By the way, this is how you recycle.’ You took my rinsed milktea carton, pulled out the corners, and flattened it—practised hands like working the origami. ‘This way, they won’t fill up so quickly,’ you said, nodding towards the bins.
 

The way you shrank materials meant to take up space, pressing, flattening, making them smaller, thinner until they all but disappeared.
 

Swish-swash.
 

In the tree-shadowed alley, you disappeared.

Swish—
 

Had you already worn waterproof joggers then, the kind built for rain-slicked pavements and plastic bags dripping at your feet? At your desk, I understood little beyond your protruding front teeth grin and a nose flushed redder than the Teacher’s pen. A stack of your exams lay there, Teacher’s markings bleeding across them. None had a passing grade. I winced, dropped my gaze, and forced a smile that never revealed my teeth.
 

That evening after school, and many evenings that followed, I passed you outside the 7-Eleven by the crossroads, on my way to cram school, a milktea and rice ball in hand, preparing for the middle school entrance exam.
 

You stood with a woman, perhaps your mother, a relation I only guessed but never asked. Streetlights blurred your outlines, softening the neatly piled rubbish and recycling bags. Their neon colours glowed like a plastic barricade. The sour scent of decay made passersby detour, but neither of you seemed to notice or care. She turned at the sound of your greeting and met my gaze. You said something in her ear, voice barely carrying over the rumbling traffic. Her furrowed brow smoothed into a smile. I saw it—the same prominent teeth.
 

I’d known before then. Before your mother’s warmth flashed across her face, toastier than the dim orange glow. Every evening, you and your mother waited at the street corner after sorting through the neighbourhood’s discarded waste. Rain or shine, bright-coloured trucks arrived, some jaw-crunching, some compartmentalised, others taking only buckets of what was once food. I never knew, nor did I need to know, the exact schedules. But you and your mother always showed up outside the 7-Eleven, your routine as predictable as the timed streetlight flickering on.
 

Psst, psst.

Light above me stuttered, then buzzed to life. I quickened my pace, wary of being late for cram school. Parents, teachers, and even the walls of our classrooms told us to work hard. ‘You don’t want to end up like…,’ they whispered, eyes pointing towards those fading into society’s bottom rung. ‘If you work hard, you’ll succeed. Those who fail are lazy.’ There was so much conviction in their words, in their belief, in this flawless system we set up to rank people from the prized to the diminished.
 

Me at the cram school, you at the crossroads.
 

Trucks came. Lights came. At home, I sat at the kitchen table, pencil poised over the family income survey that came—another ranking to climb, its ladder lined with the inky fragrance of money.
 

‘Mummy, which box do I tick?’
 

Mum frowned at the income survey in my hand and jabbed a finger in between the answers. ‘Average.’
 

I nodded, pencil scratching the paper that spelt out the category we settled for.
 

Average was what we strived for when asked, but behind closed doors, Dad pushed me to outrun the pack. A class ranking sheet listed everyone’s grades. We took it home for signing. I didn’t need to glance to see you were one of the bottom ones. Your name, like your afterschool schedule, routinely sits low. Did your mother beat you then? A whip of a hanger? A pinch at every missed mark? Did you have to beg for forgiveness, kneeling on the abacas until your knees greened and purpled? These questions, like the relation between you and the woman, would never be confirmed, because I didn’t want to know, to wonder about an alternative life I could grin and greet like you did—one where my mum and dad hauled bags to scrape a living.
 

This Lunar New Year, I flew back to Taiwan, as I do every year. Like a last-minute migratory bird, I rode the tailwind home. Sea cucumber soup, steamed abalone and baked mullet roe lie across Grandma’s dinner table, once-a-year indulgences I allow myself. Soon, I’ll return to one-to-one yoga and meditation practices. These days, success isn’t just professional but the dress size women squeeze themselves in for the conference halls.
 

After dinner, I excuse myself for a jog, wrapping the same lambswool scarf around my neck. Lanterns hang between lampposts, swaying back and forth as the chilled air blows. In the city, only lights remain. Even pedestrian signals look mournful. I jog past deserted streets, the teppanyaki restaurant, and the 7-Eleven.
 

That’s when I spot your ruddy nose.
 

At the intersection, you wait alone. Green, blue bags of rubbish pile high at the back of a rickety tricycle. Next to it, you stand like a guardian angel, one hand on the handle, the other tucked in your jacket pocket. As I approach, your head continues to look in the direction of the distant truck, oblivious to my nearing steps. I finger my phone in the coat pocket, unsure if I wanted you to turn or let this be a one-sided encounter.
 

Déjà vu. The glare stings—I blink, but it doesn’t fade. I’ve seen this before. Not here. Not now. Another time, another place—us by your desk in good-weather-charm uniforms. Two schoolchildren navigating the complexity of this world. Teacher’s correction pen. Class ranking. My triumph in this cutthroat competition.
 

No.

I inhale and tap your shoulder.

‘Happy New Year.’

You grin, same teeth, but streaks of grey in your hair.

‘I didn’t know they collect rubbish on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Oh yeah, pretty much every day. But holidays are better, especially Lunar New Year. Streets are empty, easier to get stuff done.’ You fiddle with the tricycle handle before adding, ‘You moved? Don’t see you around no more.’

‘Yeah, to Scotland. I miss Taiwanese milktea so bad. Drink a carton every day when I’m home.’

‘The same from 7-Eleven?’
 

‘The very same. I flatten it for recycle,’ I say, sheepish, tucking at my scarf. ‘You probably don’t remember, but you’d shown me once, the correct way.’
 

You chuckle. ‘The correct way? Just messing. An excuse to talk to you.’