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PORTRAIT issue #15 : fall 2025

parallels

cover design | Miranda Liu inner cover design | Portrait Executive Board inner cover photos | Christian Wolke, Jay Fu

Table of Contents 05 Letter from the Editor-in-Chief Ulysses Bergel

28 Along These

44 Missing Intersection

06 Family Portrait Miranda Liu

30 Standing at the Corner Ulysses Bergel

46 Untitled

08 Where the Echo Stands Still

32 Mirrored Sea Lena Lee

50 Mi Cultura 是什么？

10 Bridging Two Worlds

36 One and The Same

52 Geometry of Belonging

12 Untitled

37 The Moment After Rebirth

54 The 12th Letter Aijia Zou

13 American As

38 Omori

57 Towards, Between Anni Yu

14 Everything I Know about Love

40 What’s in a Name

58 Halves

16 Woven Together

41 hey, hi, hello

60 Unfinished

17 The Flowering Tea Shop

42 Mero Jain

62 Letter from the First-Year Representative

Angela Moon

Kinsey Wang

Owais Haider

Akshaya Raghaven Jay Fu

Mari Bowers-Wong

Zoe North

Hadley Snell

Ameyaa Desai

Kelsey Wang

Mia LaBianca

Sebastian Chang-Leung Sarah Huynh

Alyssa Gu

Apollo Marks

Anonyomous Makie Koizumi

Cody Hoang

Michelle Mei

Presha Kandel

21 is it?-it is: a privilege

43 Ships Passing into the Night

Ember Tao

Misha Wichita

Ari Kikuta

22 First Love/Late Spring by Mitski: How to Love Someone Nicole Gao

*Trigger Warnings:

Where the Echo Stands Still | death, blood

First Love/Late Spring by Mitski:

Omori | depression, isolation from trauma

American As | death, blood, suicide

How to Love Someone | anxiety, relationship problems,

Ships Passing into the Night | death

The Flowering Tea Shop | car accident, amnesia

familial problems

The 12th Letter | abuse Unfinished | death, amputation

Letter from the L e t tEditor-in-Chief er from the Editor-in-Chief Dear reader, Please, lose yourself in the wonders of our fifteenth issue. Before you do, though, I want to thank every contributor and, of course, you. Whether you have played a role in the publication of this issue or you are just flipping through the pages, I am incredibly grateful for you. Portrait has been a home for me, semester after semester, and it is an honor to have met the passionate, creative, and caring artists that form our community. Were it not for Portrait, so many of us would never have crossed paths, despite all of our similarities. What a joy to say that this issue’s theme is about exactly that: parallels. All the members of our community have engaged with this deeply, considering their personal interpretations of this theme and how it impacts them. What if you could experience a parallel life? Are your thoughts in parallel to someone else’s? Do you see a parallel between you and someone else’s life? It has been a privilege to be a part of this community, bringing our interpretations to life through art. As you read this magazine, you’ll encounter the heart of everything that Portrait stands for. It is a place for expression, a channel for identity, and a showcase of tremendous passion. This letter barely captures the pride with which I present - parallels. While you walk between lines and witness the countless possibilities throughout this issue, I hope you’ll join me in being lost within each and every piece. Thank you to everyone who made this issue possible, from contributors to supportive family and friends. It would be nothing without your time, passion, skill, and dedication to the beautiful community that is Portrait. With love, Ulysses 유지승 Bergel, Editor-in-Chief

Sarah

Aijia

Tina

Angela

Kristine

Michelle

Sebastian

Christian

Hadley

Alyssa

Executive Board

Writers/Project Leads

editor-in-chief: Ulysses Bergel content editor: Nicole Gao creative director: Miranda Liu design lead: Yunyang (Joy) Bai lead producer: Christian Wolke launch liaison: Michelle Mei publicity manager: Aijia Zou treasurer: Anni Yu first-year representative: Misha Wichita

Ulysses Bergel Mari Bowers-Wong Sebastian Chang-Leung Ruimei Chau Ameyaa Desai Jay Fu Nicole Gao Alyssa Gu Owais Haider Cody Hoang Sarah Huynh Presha Kandel

Mia

Ulysses

Ari

Nicole L.

Joy

Mari

Makie

Editors Ari Kikuta Kinsey Wang Makie Koizumi Anni Yu Aijia Zou Mia LaBianca Lena Lee Apollo Marks Michelle Mei Angela Moon Zoe North Akshaya Raghavan Hadley Snell Ember Tao Kelsey Wang

Hana Afiz Ulysses Bergel Jay Fu Nicole Gao Alyssa Gu Owais Haider Rachel Kang Makie Koizumi Nicole Lai Michelle Mei Angela Moon Tina Ni

Nicole G.

Yuetong

Julia

Niki

Ameyaa

Ruimei

Kinsey

Zoe

Apollo

Owais

Miranda

Anni

Designers Minhtâm Ong Hershey Pothuganti Karthik Shankar Hadley Snell Kristine Sohn Kinsey Wang Christian Wolke Caitlyn Wu Niki Wu

Yunyang (Joy) Bai Nathan Brauer Sebastian Chang-Leung Ruimei Chau Yonghan Chen Ziruo He Ari Kikuta Julia Landicho Miranda Liu Michelle Mei Yuetong (Michelle) Mi Minhtâm Ong

Kelsey

Akshaya Raghavan Kinsey Wang Misha Witchita Anni Yu Aijia Zou

Cody

Rachel

Misha

Zirou

Producers

Social Media

Ruimei Chau Jay Fu Ken Portillo Christian Wolke

Hana Afiz Aijia Zou

Where the Echo Stands Still There she dances along keys and trumpet thorns. glamoring, blinding, bustling turmoil, seismical ripples fiercely devour. In the blurred echoes of mirrors, I’ve seen you before. It must have never left me, time cuts no corners round. Creatures crawl on the Roman chest, Dead whales decay surmount. A feathered head top flickered my hair, hoosh— Was it perhaps the wind’s passerby, or the vast and hazy, the lofty and cheers, drifty, twisty, breathy bridges through time. Spun life’s blizzard of hues within, How am I to say if any is true? We walk and walk until the sun is far-fetched. I turned left, nothing but nothingness swept. There thou will be, though I shall not see. Those bits and sorrows which men call petty, fuel flesh and blood let astray by many. Earth’s thrumming, slowing heartbeat, a destined fallacy to meet. Until it all dissolves to the very basics: Only trying to stand still, are we clinging along the axis.

Written by: Kinsey Wang Edited by: Alyssa Gu Designed by: Kinsey Wang

I still have a scar on the inside Of my forearm from slipping On the fallen bone-colored trunk, you held My hand to pull me up, such sweetness. And so we climbed toward the light As night fell away,

The speckled branch, watching others be held by hands, breaths, lips. Remember sweetness? When it melted on our tongues under fluorescent lights, Crammed inside Those ketchup-colored booths, away from hollow walls. There, we let slip Many quiet truths, tucking slips Of memory away For later: recounting the sweetness Of a first kiss in the moonlight, Beneath a lilting tree. Oh, to be held So softly from the inside. We let slip the light we held. Now, It dwells inside windowpanes Of time suspended: parallel we part our ways in sweetness. Writer: Hadley Snell Editor: Makie Koizumi Designer: Yonghan Chen

I remember the way my fingers slipped Along the mossy wall, light Glistening from layers of stone held in place by decades, sheltering the sweetness Of the yard inside. I take the inside Of the corner and almost pass over sweetness: Asian pears, a bowl of them to give away, We stop. I slip one into my pocket to hold onto for later, it feels light, Like leaves fluttering alight In golden flames, licking sweetness from dew grass. Above the slippery debris, an arm stretches away, Low and lanky and lilting. Inside its skin, a chain persists, holding

American Am erican As

Written by Mia LaBianca Edited by Niki Wu Designed by Akshaya Raghavan

Well, I guess it’s no surprise he turned out a spy— look at him. Look at his worn face; in life his eyes were deep and brown and though his body is here we knew his heart was in Japan— that mystic land! Cherry blossoms and reed flutes and spattered blood and the eye of the emperor, always watching him, his soul. We knew him! We knew he felt the gun on his back, double agent double-heart, Double O— he shot himself in the head. I guess it’s no surprise that he was made for work like this— Dick, we’d ask him, how does it feel as you turn and turn and only your own face faces you, fun house mirrors of who you used to be, doubled on doubled on doubled on loyalty— are you willing to serve? Dick, will you swear fealty to the Lord? Dick! Will you give up your goddamned home?

The last time Pauline saw Malcolm, they were ten and his Transformers t-shirt was stained with melted popsicle. Now he wears a button-down and trousers. She’s in a dress her mother insisted she wear. Malcolm’s mother hugs her and gestures for her to take the seat across from him. Pauline sits and studies Malcolm, the memory of their one-time meeting at a 4th of July party and his grownup face clashing. She turns to look at her mother, unamused. So this is lunch. Later, they all walk together to the train. Pauline waits until their mothers are out of earshot, trailing a few feet behind them on the sidewalk, before she asks. “You know they’re trying to set us up, right?” Malcolm shrugs. He says, “Like set us up to date? Yeah, I figured.” The indifference in his voice annoys her. She can’t tell if he’s so calm because he wants what their mothers want or because he’s already decided she’s not good enough for him. She’s not sure which scenario she prefers. She tugs on his arm. He allows her to pull them out of the way of pedestrian traffic, his head tilted curiously. He asks, “Are you free next Friday?” Behind him, she can see their mothers approaching. Their arms are linked, like they’re schoolgirls in uniform again. Her mom laughs at something his mom says. She feels Malcolm’s hand graze her forearm. She doesn’t mind the touch. His fingers are warm and dry and hesitant. “Yeah, I’m free,” she says. “What do you want to do?” Pauline is twenty-three. Her mom was twenty-three when she got married. Her dad was twenty-four. They immigrated to the States one month later. There’s a photo of them taken around that time. In it, they sit side by side, her mother’s arms slung loosely around her father’s shoulders. They smile at the camera, their mouths open and wide. In the house Pauline grew up in, this photo was framed and displayed on a side table in the living room. When her parents moved last summer, it was wrapped in coarse brown paper and placed in a box marked “BASEMENT: SORT LATER.” They agree to dinner at a restaurant in Soho. Pauline’s last date was in the spring of her junior year of college, ending with a perfunctory kiss and an unspoken agreement not to text each other again. She is out of practice. On Friday night, Pauline puts on a skirt and a nice top, reapplies her lipstick, and sprays perfume in her hair. Malcolm picks her up from her apartment. He smiles when her roommates send them off with dramatic demands to have her home by midnight. They take the train downtown. Standing close to him in the crowded subway car, Pauline decides that she likes Malcolm’s clean linen scent, the way he is tall enough that she has to lift her head just so to look at him, the funny comments he makes about the ads for injury attorneys and Hinge. At the restaurant, they wait by the bar for an open table. She orders a vodka soda and downs half of it while they make small talk. Later, when she tells her roommates that they’re going on a second date, she’ll claim she was tipsy. In truth, she was completely sober by then. She said yes because she liked his attention and the way he smiled at her, and she knew it would make her mother happy. Pauline’s parents no longer share a bedroom. In the new house, her mother sleeps upstairs and her father sleeps downstairs. She makes him dinner every night and he takes out the trash when she asks. Their fights, loud and frequent throughout Pauline’s childhood, are rarer. She thinks it’s because, these days, they can barely muster the energy to be angry. Her mother has stopped calling to complain about him.

14 14

Their second date is a much more casual affair at the botanical gardens. Pauline laughs when she finds out he has a pollen allergy. Malcolm sniffles and takes a picture of her standing amongst the azaleas. He kisses her in front of her apartment building. Afterwards, Pauline calls her mother. “He’s a very nice man,” she says. “Tell a-yi that she did a good job.” Her mother huffs. “Of course he’s nice! I wouldn’t put you with someone I know wouldn’t take care of you.” “But I can take care of myself –” “I know, I know, I raised you to be independent,” says her mother, interrupting. “I just thought, if you got married — I know you only had, what, two dates? Too early. And anyway, you’re too young to get married, do you hear me?” “Yes, Mother,” Pauline replies, dryly. “I know you and Dad got married quickly, but I think I need to see Malcolm at least a few more times before I think about marriage.” “Good.” Silence. Then, “I don’t want you to do everything by yourself. I don’t want you to be angry all the time.” Pauline’s parents have been married for over thirty years. Occasionally, she’ll find them existing quietly in the same room. Their love is a sensible choice, and she has long realized they will make it endure, even as the fondness and affection has faded away. She asks, “Would you be happy if I fell in love with Malcolm?” “All I want,” her mother says, “is for you to be happy.”

They go on a third date, then a fourth, fifth, and suddenly they’ve been dating for a few months. Their mothers come into town for the weekend and invite them out to lunch. On Saturday, Malcolm picks her up from her apartment. They arrive at the restaurant early and stand outside, peering left and right for signs of their moms. Pauline hears them rounding the corner. They sound happy and excited. She tugs on Malcolm’s arm and pulls him to her. She reaches up and wraps her arms loosely over his shoulders, her hands meeting at the nape of his neck. His arm circles low around her waist. He breathes out, a whoosh of air by her ear. She lets her head rest on the soft cotton of his shirt. Pauline has never been in love, but she can imagine it.

Written by: Alyssa Gu Edited by: Caitlyn Wu Designed by: Michelle Mei 15 15

Woven Together The Machine rumbles and roars a monolith from an ancient age, omnipresent, it sends ripples through space and through time labors on echoing the calls of its brethren weaving together a pattern that binds our disparate parts. From uncountable threads interlocked, interconnected, one tapestry is born, constituents arranged together, useless without others shuttle the weft right then left a crisscrossing pattern derived from Chaos. Finally, the threads pull taught, bringing our two lives into Parallel.

Written by: Apollo Marks | Edited by: Nicole Lai | Designed by: Yunyang (Joy) Bai

In the dewy, unripe morning, a certain tea shop buzzed with flighty commotion. A thready line of people stretched from the shrubbery at the corner and wrapped around to the alabaster door. Hibiscus and jasmine wafted out of the cracks, seeping through stained glass windows to permeate the air with a succulent aroma. Inside, customers were ushered into the main tea room—a half-sunny space of enchanting crystal butterflies and comforting quiet. There was always a strange, magnetic hushedness about the shop. As the first round of customers tilted their teacups toward their lips, letting the rich tea flow into their systems like running rainwater, Clare suddenly grew wistful, eyes misting over. “Why don’t you ever try it?” Luca interrupted her reverie with a grin, too slow and smug as always. As one of the first people she met when she joined the tea shop, Clare had attached herself to him, learning his eccentricities quickly. He’d drank the tea several times in the past for trivial reasons— attempting to see how prom would’ve been if he went with a different partner, or what elementary school would’ve been like if he had been in a different first grade class. He hadn’t really pointed out her lack of trying the tea until now though, which momentarily disoriented Clare. “It’s nice to live in the unknown sometimes.” “I don’t know, I like knowing. My what-if questions go away.” Luca resumed wiping down the sticky counter, near-ruined by herbal spills and rosehip. In the time Clare had known Luca, he was always the adventurer— the one who yearned to discover more and venture down rabbit holes. Clare’s heart thumped at just the thought of experiencing what could’ve been if she’d made one different decision. The idea of knowing was enticing, but chills ran down her arms at the thought of having too much information. She had made peace with her decision to abstain from drinking the tea a long time ago. “You ask about trivial things, like how prom would’ve changed depending on who your date was.” She responded, humming at the childish thought. “I mean, would you rather me ask about things that matter? Those consequences are permanent, Clare.” A strict silence befell them. It was disclosed to everyone who had the tea that there would be a consequence that matched the value of the change a customer asked for in relation to their life; those who asked about major changes often left the shop with a permanent injury, whether it be physical or mental. No one knew how the severity was decided, except for the tea itself. Clare’s heart always dropped when remembering the consequences— why would she alter her life so drastically for a future that would never be? “No, of course not—” 17

“I know what I’d ask about if consequences were off the table. I think you know too.” Luca tousled his hair and masked the abrupt hurt in his eyes with a false happiness, forever a performer. There was something unspoken in the spilled tea around them, a wonderance about their relationship. In their early years working together, Luca, in his usual reckless, yet endearing nature, had proclaimed a deep, unyielding infatuation for her— she had turned him down out of fear. He didn’t check every single box on her list, and Clare’s perfectionist desires didn’t allow her to even think about him in that capacity. But in the typical Luca tendency, he slowly burrowed himself in her heart, with their day to day exchanges and the gauzy warmth that tinged each interaction. It was impossible not to like him, but now, it felt too late, too complicated to do anything about it. Clare recalled hastily the closing shift that rooted him into her life forevermore— it had been a dark winter evening, and instead of turning on the overhead lamps, Luca lit the wax candles he acquired from the storage closet. They made each other’s favorite blends: green jasmine for Clare and apple cinnamon for Luca, and sipped tea under the melting candlelight. She made a joke that it felt like they were in a movie at that instance, and Luca promptly grabbed her hand, twirling her around. They’d danced in the liminal space, floating and deliriously high from each other’s company. Coming back to the present, Clare blinked rapidly to re-center herself from the flush of that memory. Luca looked on, none the wiser, the hurt still disguised as he turned to help another customer. From then, she’d occasionally catch Luca watching her, a quiet glint of melancholic admiration in his eyes, but Clare wanted to forget her feelings and their complicated past. The flashes of memory haunted her— another reason why she couldn’t bring herself to touch the tea. The rest of their shift went like clockwork, apart from the once in a blue moon quip from Luca. There was a comfort that the tea shop staff had found in each other, and Clare especially regarded Luca as one of her dearest friends. If they could find a way to separate themselves from their history, Clare could be completely content. As she locked up the store, her mind was left to overthink once again. Clare boarded her train with nothing but the tea shop and Luca on her mind, a regular puzzle for her to fixate on during the lengthy train rides to and from the shop. Clare left the train quietly, walking a few blocks under the blanket of dark sky from the station to her tight studio apartment. Besides her cat, Margo, she’s learned to live alone. The occasional ambulance siren was the only noise from the outside world. Perhaps that was the reason she loved to reside at the tea shop for so long— the constant population of people, the warm, inviting aroma of spice and tea, and those she worked with kept her sane. Home didn’t feel like home the way that the tea shop did. As Clare set her reading glasses down on the nightstand in preparation for bed, a loud spur of the classical music that was her ringtone echoed in the dark room. She fumbled to grab her phone, holding it upside down to answer, and her manager’s frantic voice pitched into the silence.

row?”

“Clare? Would you be able to take Luca’s shift tomor“I can check my schedule. What’s the matter?”

“He was just in an accident. His mom called…” The phone cut out, discordant radio static enveloping Clare’s ears and flooding her internal systems. Humming and whirring and the sound of clambering and clutter and she couldn’t breathe and— “Clare. Clare? Are you still on the line?” “I— yes— I’m sorry,” She spoke in small, raspy gasps, unable to remove the image of Luca’s face from her mind. “Is he okay?” “He’s critical, but stable. I don’t have any other information. You will be updated as I’m updated. Can you take the shift or not?” “I’ll— I’ll take it.” She dropped the phone as the line went silent, eyes opened wide in a futile attempt to stop the tears from staking on her cheeks. Luca— bright, silly, brilliant Luca, in an accident. That was near unfathomjust seen him that day, heard his laugh, and indulged in his smile. Her heart ached and churned as if it was on a neverending carousel.

claim able. She had

The next morning, Clare readied several of the special tea blends with unsteady hands, itching to steal a cup. Throughout her shift, customers came and went, some staggering away after a particularly bad consequence, others clutching their stomachs as if the contents of them could spill out at any moment. The still-steeping tea tempted her like a siren at sea, but Clare resolved to wait until her shift ended— fourteen minutes. It felt like an eternity. Once the last customer trickled out of the shop, she trembled in her haste to prepare her cup. Rose and cardamom sifted through the air as Clare poised the cup at her lips, still watching the tea warily as if it would jump at her in an instant. As the first sip touched her tongue, she closed her eyes and imagined Luca—his shining eyes and smile—and wondered how her life would turn out if she had just allowed herself to be with him. When Clare opened her eyes again, the smell of freshly baked bread replaced the fragrance of steeped tea leaves, the visage of the tea shop melting into an airy, open living space. A calico cat that looked suspiciously like Margo pawed at her bare leg, nuzzling her with its whiskers, and an arm suddenly wrapped around her like a wool scarf. “Seems like Margo’s trying to tell you something.” Luca’s voice felt tangible and rich. He held on to Clare like she was his life jacket in open water. His hair was longer here, curling at the ends, and while admiring his honest, open smile, Clare’s heart began to ache. Outside, the cityscape glimmered as if it was hiding a secret, and the window reflected golden hour upon everything their eyes could see. Their home, together, was so bright and warm, with the reflective crystal lights above the dinner table, and the thick knit blankets thrown over the cloudlike couch. So different from her lonely apartment. Remaining in Luca’s steady embrace, Clare inspected the photos that were proudly displayed on every possible inch of wall space— her and Luca at his parents’ cabin in the mountains, them running vividly in a flowering plain, them so in love that no other reality of them could possibly be true. In every second spent in this dream world, a scene, a memory of them resurfaced, flooding Clare’s mind and taking her through a river of what could’ve been.

She escaped the vision, tears dripping into her still-full cup of tea. The thought of getting to Luca was now the only thing on her mind, a rushing symphony that repeated his name— until she realized that nothing had changed. No calamity had befallen her, no tidal wave had come to punish her for seeing into a life that never was. Perhaps it was a fluke or an exception on the tea’s part, but she couldn’t contemplate it for long. Quickly, Clare scooped up her belongings and made a mad dash toward the train station. It hurt to think of the hospital where Luca had been stowed, like he was some random piece of luggage. Her body was wracked with full chills as she mulled over what to say to Luca— a simple I love you, or even a long-winded tale about her journey to this epiphany— he would love a stupid declaration like that. The train to the hospital was full of impatience, the cars beginning to huff with exhaustion as Clare pulled into the correct station. Climbing out of the underground furnace, sirens and the sound of wailing littered the atmosphere, punctuating the suffocating pain in the hospital. She only had one goal. Inside, the receptionist, a kind woman with a haphazard bun atop her head, scrawled through a roster of countless names before landing on the only one that mattered. Room 252. She bolted as fast as her heels could take her, holding her breath as she approached the sterile door. Peering in, Clare watched Luca’s animated face, surrounded by his family and some friends he had mentioned over the years— in a burst of elation, she flung open the door. Her eyebrows raised in an open expression, ready to admit what she’d been running from for too long. Luca stared at Clare, no recognition crossing his face. “I’m sorry, this is a private room. Friends and family only.” Luca’s mother, who Clare had become acquainted with years ago, got up to shoo her away. The room was a whirlpool of faces that gawked at her, a stirring whisper of questions building and building. All too rapidly, Clare realized the consequence the tea had cursed her with— it seemed as though no one in Luca’s life, including Luca himself, remembered her. Slowly, like a half-lit firecracker with no fuse, Clare could barely stagger out of the room before she crouched in on herself, her worst fears realized. It had been too late, and the punishment had been priceless. One of her favorite people, doomed to forget her forever. Time healed, and yet time hurt. For Clare, it served to only strangle her into a catatonic state— where love and light could no longer reach her.

s e n i L hese se

e T h g T n o g Al Alon Edite ela Moon | g n A y b n Writte

Last summer, I visited Korea for the first time in six years to see my extended family. Throughout this trip, I realized how deeply language plays a part in my sense of identity. Being born and raised in America, I’ve always felt very comfortable navigating the English-speaking world, often supporting my parents with any struggles that came with it. In Korea, however, our roles were reversed— they helped me understand flurries of family conversation or unfamiliar questions at a restaurant, while I floundered.

d by Kristi

igned by Sohn | Des

Michelle M

Even more frustrating to me was my inability to be myself to my Korean relatives. I didn’t know anything about current events, I could barely read, I could not make jokes, and I was very, very shy—I was a completely different person. While I typically pride myself on my ability to make conversation and ask good questions, I lacked the social nuances and confidence to do so in Korean. I felt culturally incompetent, and everyday life felt a little off-kilter. I felt out of place, wondering if I had become “too American.” By saying this, I am being hard on myself. I was able to hold conversations adequately, and my language skills had increased significantly since my last visit. However, I am still not as fluent as I would like to be, and that discrepancy felt stifling. Being in Korea at 18 rather than 12 brought with it heightened critical thought and self-awareness, and I began to better understand the experiences of my parents in the United States. I realized the struggle of living in a community where you cannot be truly known or understood.

Upon returning home, I reflected on the role of language in everyday life. In our household, conversation is often split evenly between English and Korean, where my parents speak to my brother and me in Korean while we respond in English, mixing words of the other language into our speech. Even as I write this essay, I compulsively wish to put in Korean words that feel more natural, even if they hold the same dictionary definition. Though I may not be fluent in Korean as a whole, I am fluent in one variation: the one of my family. The sentence structures my mother prefers, the words that are unique to my father. It doesn’t allow me to communicate perfectly with everyone, but I understand almost every word that comes out of my parents’ mouths.

There have been times when I found myself in crisis over the way my American identity overpowers my Korean one, or the way I feel out of place in predominantly white American communities. Now, I feel that I have finally found a balance between my parallel identities. My culture, upbringing, and language are all Korean-American, seamlessly integrating both aspects, no more one than the other. Though my two identities may seem parallel at a brief glance, maybe they are instead two segments living on the same line, distinct but not so different after all.

A r e y o u p r o u d ? 36

Y e s o f c o u r s e

Zoe North

Kelsey Wang

Written and Designed by

Sebastian Chang-Leung

Edited by

Rachel Kang

WELCOME TO WHITE SPACE. YOU HAVE BEEN LIVING HERE FOR AS LONG AS YOU CAN REMEMBER. These are two of the frist lines that introducie you into the world of OMORI. OMORI is an indie turnbased role-playing game set in a vibrant and whimsical world, where OMORI and his friends embark on a quest to save their missing friend. Along the way, they meet a colorful cast of characters, traverse different regions filled with a variety of side quests to complete, battle enemies and bosses using a combat system based on emotions. After each night, OMORI returns to his home base of WHITE SPACE, a safe haven in the void. At least, that’s half the story. This is actually all a dream world constructed by the mind of SUNNY, an Asian American teen who has socially isolated himself following a traumatic event four years ago. The name “OMORI” comes from the word hikikomori, a Japanese term which refers to the extreme avoidance of social contact, particularly pertaining to adolescent boys. Rather than confronting his trauma, SUNNY buries it by creating HEADSPACE, a world where everything is still okay, and his “friends” are still like they were four years ago. If you choose to open the door when SUNNY’s old friend KEL knocks, you’ll start the real world storyline, where SUNNY starts the process of overcoming his fears and processing his grief. In Faraway Town, though the town itself has remained the same, a lot has changed since SUNNY began his reclusive lifestyle. Notably, while his friends share some parallels with their HEADSPACE counterparts, they’ve changed while he has stagnated in his growth. Certain memories and details about his friends have also changed in HEADSPACE due to SUNNY misremembering after such an extended period without seeing them. The portrayals of the main characters in the emotion chart for battle and the ways each of them processed what happened four years ago form a notable parallel, mirroring one another: KEL, shown in the chart as happy, was able to move on and eventually regain a positive attitude; AUBREY, shown as angry, has become a delinquent and blames her friends for abandoning her during that painful time; HERO, shown as sad, fell into a deep depression for a full year following the event; and Image sourced from OMORI OMORI, shown as neutral, represents SUNNY bottling up his emotions. I chose to write about this game not only because of the fact that it stars an Asian American protagonist and how it fits the theme of parallels, but also simply because it is a great game. Though I first played it this summer, this year marks the 5th anniversary of OMORI’s release. I would recommend playing OMORI for its complex characters, atmospheric soundtrack, charming art style, and most of all its emotional narrative. While on the one hand OMORI can be a game that doesn’t take itself too seriously, with comedic moments and HEADSPACE shenanigans such as sparring with a muscular personification of the dwarf planet Pluto, this more lighthearted aspect is paralleled by its psychological horror and the depth of storytelling and exploration of themes such as guilt, death, and depression. Will you do nothing and remain in WHITE SPACE, waiting for something to happen? Or will you delve into the world of OMORI, and uncover the truth? 39

written by Sarah Huynh | edited by Niki Wu | designed by Aijia Zou My last name is Huynh, a name passed down carrying stories from Vietnam. In Chinese, it’s counterpart is Huang ( ). Different spellings, different sounds, and yet they are the same. In both languages, Chinese and Vietnamese, my name means Yellow Orchid. This name blooms with meaning, a symbol that ties me to two cultures, two families. My name is more than just a word: It is a reminder and a bridge between the two worlds that I am a part of. These worlds collide in everyday moments of my life, from the food that I eat, the languages I try to speak, and the values I carry with me everywhere I go. I miss my Ba Noi’s cha gio, hot and crispy wrapped in a paper towel. I love the warm and soothing broth of pho, capable of healing any of my illnesses. At the same time I crave the watercress noodle soup my Popo makes – my sister and I always fight for the last drops. I belong to both worlds. And yet, at many times it feels like I belong to neither. I can order food in Chinese, recite prayers in Vietnamese, but I’m not fluent enough in either yet to express myself fully. My life resides in the in-between, where I see the parallels in words, phrases, and actions, just like my name. Sometimes, it feels like both parts of my identity are far out of my reach. Am I too Vietnamese for the Chinese community? Too Chinese for the Vietnamese? My worlds get mixed and I feel like neither are my place. I get lost in translation. Take one look at me, and you would know that I’m Asian. But would you know that I’m Chinese and Vietnamese? My thoughts remind me of the connections that I can make, that I do belong. I do come from someplace— my whole family and the communities that I’ve built my whole life. Living in the in-between space does not isolate me, but instead it joins me to two larger communities. I can help others find their place in these communities too. I am proud of my identity, of who I am, and my ties to these two worlds. So, what’s in a name? A history. A connection. A beginning. Everything.

August 2024

March 2025

October 2025

Heý,

Hi,

Hello,

I hope that ýou’re doing well. I can’t believe that ýou’re finallý spreading ýour wings– ýou dreamt of the daý that ýou’d escape the cage ýou’ve been in! Those long conversations at 2am finallý paid off to this verý moment.

Ýou’ve taken some time to adjust, to think, too. How is this new life? I didn’t imagine that it’d be difficult, because it wasn’t like that at first. It felt blissful, exciting – like the most amazing thing that’s ever happened. The world was looking up, and everýthing was going to be alright.

Time has passed, and I think things have been going well. The past couple of months did not feel real – almost like amnesia? It’s not that I can’t recall what happened, but everýthing and nothing felt real. Now, things are feeling real. In a good waý, I hope. Ýou’ve spent some time reflecting and figuring out what’s next, and ýou decided to come back after all. It was a good decision – and there’s no lýing here. It feels right to think so.

It seems like things are going well, but we don’t know ýet. All the things ýou’ve done are finallý paýing off. The countless hours of running around back and forth, meetings, all time spent doing that stupid chemistrý problem�it’s led us to this verý moment. Ýou’re finallý leaving. For the longest time, ýou ýearned to escape and leave home. Not because there’s something wrong with ýou–but because something just never felt quite right about it. It’s that desire to go out and explore. Ýou’re ýoung, ýou want to be freed from the onlý place ýou’ve ever known�and it’s becoming a realitý! Everýone around ýou is excited, but ýou can’t ignore the elephant in the room. The friends ýou love, the familý ýou cherish–theý’re seeing ýou get readý for this new adventure. It’s funný how a lot of us are going on our own adventure. We all imagined that we wouldn’t even make it to this moment, jokinglý and seriouslý. Like the dreads of the past four ýears have led us, once again, to this verý moment. Do ýou remember when ýou and Mickeý said leaving home would be like going to ýour America? Like how our parents were leaving their countries to go to America? Theý’re escaping from their own experiences, and ýou’re escaping the old version of ýourself. It’s a hilarious analogý to think about. The cage that made ýou feel like ýou were locked up, ýou’re now opening it and leaving it for the first time. I don’t know what will happen next, but I’m hopeful this is a good opportunitý. It’s like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunitý. To leave the cage, once and for all. And if all shit goes to hell, ýou can alwaýs return to the cage.

But that wasn’t the case. After some time, things started to deplete. I think it’s the nightlý horrors of questioning whether this was right – leaving the cage. Some parts felt so rushed; some parts of it also felt wrong. Sometimes it feels like it feels right, like it needs to be right. I keep thinking: do I miss home? Have I alwaýs felt like I never belong? Or is it that I want to throw this opportunitý awaý for something else? These thoughts feel sudden, but maýbe it quietlý built up over the months. I mean, should it feel normal to think maýbe this isn’t the right choice? Whý is it happening to this extent? Did I do something wrong that led to this? What is it that I miss about being home? I can’t wrap mý head around that; I’ve alwaýs spent ýears wanting to leave home, and now, I want to return home. It can’t just be because there’s someone waiting for me there–it has to be something else. Maýbe it’s the stabilitý of knowing where things are, and where things would be going. Hell, I don’t know the roads here. Maýbe I miss knowing where the roads led. I feel like I’m stuck in a purgatorý of mý thoughts. I don't know what to expect, and I’m scared to find out more. I’ve worked so hard to get here, but is this what I reallý wanted? If I go back, will I reenter the cage, or am I going into another one?

Do ýou remember when ýou kept thinking about missing home? Even better, do ýou remember when ýou said ýou wanted to leave home? Two such bizarre ideas that ýou tackled – and ultimatelý, ýou decided to leave home. I think it’s good to miss what ýou once knew, but it is also good to leave and venture out there. It’s true that what was once there will still be there when ýou return, and it’s been true the maný times ýou returned back home for a little bit. Some daýs, though, I wonder what would’ve happened if ýou decided to leave. I don’t know what would’ve happened – obviouslý because ýou didn’t do it. But, I think more about the possibilities and relationships and experiences ýou would’ve missed out on. The different combinations of events could’ve been anýthing, but all of it led us to this verý moment. Maýbe what ýou needed most was to leave, and it is something ýou finallý did. It is actuallý something ýou are doing. The roads back home were familiar, but ýou found new roads. Perhaps even new roots? Do ýou still miss what could’ve happened, though? I don’t think it’s something particularlý fun to think about since it’ll probablý lead to an endless spiral. But I think ýou know that ýou are happý to be out on ýour own. Ýou’re finallý out of the cage.

C@T CD C@GGJ 5MDOO@I =T !J?T &J<IB #?DO@? =T &<MNCDID &@MNC@T .JOCPB<IOD 'GGPNOM<O@? =T +DNC< 5D>CDO< 41

Mero Jain Written by: Presha Kandel | Edited by: Rachel Kang | Designed by: Yunyang (Joy) Bai

My skin is beneath me, the loofah cannot reach it. It chases, my brother. That home now lies in Texas, New York, Nepal, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and everywhere else. It escapes each time I reach for it. My outwardness withers in the faces of empty eyes and drawn mouths. I’m in the backseat of a glider, the pilot not. The laughter, the passion, the love, her ability. I’m seeing it and I’m not supposed to. She’s apart from me, I long for her. I no longer want to submit, exercising my needs. I’m stunned that I stopped in the faces of empty eyes and drawn mouths. Startled that I became it. Pink holds itself inwards. It presses down with no escape, with no foresight that this was coming. Red and orange slip out. Colors I never want to see. They slip like glass from my mamu’s hand, shatter and startle. Meri mamu. My sister’s ice, it shows with her. Doses change it, the fire brightens and simmers. I was one and one with nature entirely. They alter it, outwardly. They make me pause and write na sochi kina. Maile ke garam ke garam. Everything is said twice, softly. The paper slips out from the shredder. Gold and green protect her. Orange is always watching. Capacity to hope escapes. Slowly, I become again. Parts of me that fell to the floor are picked up and stapled together. Doctors prick and poke me, searching for a soul inside. Time brings her back. She adjusts her values and beliefs. The love grows stronger and so does she. The tika returns to her forehead and the smile returns to her face. Home no longer is a place for her, for me. It’s people. Whenever a human brings me joy, I know. She’s back. 42

assing in th e Nigh P s p i t Sh Written by Edited by Designed by

dawn i was hoping that nobody was watching as i cast out my ship deep into the sea a broken prayer clasping both hands, pathetically

Ari Kikuta Kristine Sohn Michelle Mi

dusk you would call telling the truth: we both died that day, hoping to drown where we once worshiped each other. as i lay renounced there was a deep desire unravelling the letters.

i thought that with every jump overboard, i would reach a lighthouse before i realized i was alone, waiting in uncharted territory crossing out maps

you were waiting. you would catch me with open arms beckoning– forever never lasted with the sun, as hope gave out once your name was whispered

morning breaks i jab the oar in the sands swallowed by the current, words before the world wakes all my dirty prayers stuffed into bottles caged within feeble dreams sinful love

into shadow with seasons unsaid, our initials erased the tide pushes receding in the waves revealing scraps of paper smudged out lines almost spoken never seen

when death comes i might never sleep i emerge bright, fresh as a babe

let twilight linger as blue, born longing.

·Written by Akshaya Raghavan ·Edited by Owais Haider ·Designed by Ziruo He

MISSING INTERSECTION For a lot of my life I’ve felt like I was different.

It’s a difficult feeling to explain—or to justify— because I’m sure that so many others feel it too. But somehow, it feels like everyone else’s differences are miniscule while mine are impossible to ignore. My mother told me I was different from her. I agree. The meanings of her words, and even the nuances of her silences, escaped me like we are of different worlds. Trying to get the right interpretations of her actions is like making a dictionary for a language that only one person speaks. And although I am usually quick at picking up languages, this one has mostly stayed gibberish to me. 4444

On the other hand, many people have said I’m exactly like my father. I disagree. Our interests may match up—academia, music, exercise—but, still, we are so divergent. He has a sweet tooth; I prefer savory snacks. He has a gift for math; I have a talent for art. And, our most important distinction: He believes in compliance | I believe in reform. Family has never been a site of belonging to me. So, I tried friends. Turns out, I’m cursed in friendship. Since my childhood, close friends have moved to different countries, found other people they cared more about, or just been so bad for me that I had to be the one to cut them off. Okay, maybe the curse was an exaggeration. Now, I have so many wonderful people around me, but it’s still difficult to feel like I belong.

Missing Intersection As an international, South Indian, queer person in an American, predominantly white, institution, it seems like there’s always something about me that alienates me from every group I try to find my place in. I hold a special spot for all of my friends in my heart, but there are some things that I think will always separate me from them. I don’t fully understand their references, or humor, or styles of talking, or ways of thinking, and they don’t understand mine, either. I don’t blame them. I haven’t been the most open with them, after all. Even then, I try and I try to build a bridge between us, but it feels like everyone is in Arlington, while I’m in Neptune. We might all be standing in the same room, but it feels like I’m on a different plane of existence, invisible and untouchable. I often find myself wondering—why can’t I just be happy that I have these people in my life? They care about me, look out for me, even love me. But it’s still not enough. I need more, and I hate that I do. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If human life paths were to be conceptualized as lines, I think my line would stay parallel to others’. So close to paths around me, but never able to intersect with them. I continue to carve my path in front of me, hoping that someone will meet me where I’m headed, but no one seems to be coming my way. Maybe I’ve got the route all wrong. Or, maybe, I need to consider that everyone else’s lines could be parallel too, and I just don’t know it.

4545

Mi Cultura 是什么？ Edited by Hadley Snell

Written by Mari Bowers-Wong

Sometimes I think of people as being like yogurt: a blend of cultures, influenced by environments and previous generations, and beginning being fed milk. My own mix has often felt complex, as for years I’ve mourned a culture that felt lost to me—Chinese—while simultaneously having a seemingly random extra dose of cultural experience in the Spanish speaking world. Language is inextricably tied to culture, and not being able to speak Chinese—the language of my mother’s family—has often saddened me, more so because of how close I came to possessing it. When I was a baby my mother spoke to me in Chinese, but I’ve long heard the story that once I began English-speaking preschool I told her “English Mama, English”, so she stopped. For a while I felt the blame was my own for this loss of language, that if only my four year old self had valued this culture more I might’ve been able to speak with my grandmother—Ama (grandma in Taiwanese)—in a language that was more comfortable to her. Later on, I realized that the words of a four year old cannot have influenced a grown woman so much. I recall other potential reasons for my mother stopping, like how she herself had learned the language mostly by speaking with her family and less from school, making her own Chinese imperfect. My father also does not speak Chinese, and most of our community is primarily English speaking, so I don’t blame her in the end. The little Chinese I’ve picked up naturally from my mother and visits to my grandparents lets me understand when I’m asked if I like the noodles so I can respond by nodding enthusiastically and adding more to my plate. However, in longer conversations I only understand the English words mixed into my family’s conversation; I can guess that “你们去哪里?” and “我们去Costco” means “Where are you going?” and “We’re going to Costco” from the context clues of my grandma asking my uncle a question as he puts on shoes to leave, and him responding while lifting a grocery bag and car keys. Besides these bits and pieces, I’ve also taken a few short Chinese classes over the years, but each felt like learning my roots from the outside. Now I’m glad to be regularly learning the language, although in Chinese 107 most of my classmates speak Chinese in their households and don’t have much formal education in it, or are familiar with our textbook because they took classes in middle and high school. My grandparents’ household a five hour drive away has Chinese spoken in it, and I took a year of classes as a first grader, then a three week long course over the summer in high school. In the past, situations of Chinese language learning have left me feeling alienated, but I’m slowly growing and improving. I’m glad for the bits and pieces I do know and feel connected to, and I’ve tried to stop viewing my ignorance as failure. Now I try to treat each new experience as a learning opportunity; instead of keeping quiet when I’m lost, I can ask “(insert unfamiliar topic) 是什么?”, meaning “What is (insert unfamiliar topic)?” so I can use new vocabulary in the future. Much like with the language itself, I know some, but not much, of Chinese and Taiwanese culture: I associate lotus paste moon cakes and red envelopes at new years with my family and childhood, but I don’t know the Chinese memes other Chinese American friends do. As with the language, I’m working to think of new cultural knowledge as a chance to learn about my friends and family more, 50instead of feeling sorry that I hadn’t understood before. 50

Unlike my experience with Chinese language and culture, I often know the Spanish songs and cultural references my Latina friends make, and I am fluent in their language. A Colombian friend even told me once that I felt like an honorary Latina to her because she sometimes forgot I wasn’t one. While my Chinese education has been somewhat sporadic, a solid chunk of my childhood revolved around the Spanish language and immersion in Spanish-speaking cultures. I was a part of my elementary school’s dual-language program starting when I was 5 years old, where kindergarten was taught 90% in Spanish and 10% in English, then in 10% less Spanish each year until 5th grade. In 3rd grade my family lived in Santiago, Chile for a semester, where I attended a local school in Spanish. I recall my mother asking me one day after picking me up from a summer camp there whether I had trouble understanding people, and I answered “Why would I?”. My middle school and high school Spanish immersion experiences were more scattered, but in the spring of junior year my family lived abroad for a semester once more, this time in Montevideo, Uruguay, where I again went to a local school, and learned to navigate the city like a local. This second social integration experience was more challenging than at 7 years old, but after 6 months of trying to sound like an Uruguayan teenager, my Spanish both regained fluency and took on a very Uruguayan accent. In my current hispanic linguistics class spoken in Spanish I understand and participate actively, and although my reading is slow, I understand the textbook’s chapter on phonetics almost as well as if it were in English. Ultimately, I love my family and my connections to Asian Americanness, and I appreciate my Spanish speaking friends and the world that Spanish as a language has opened up to me. I love how speaking Spanish helped me learn French in high school, and how I can bond with new friends over watching Ni Hao Kai-Lan (essentially Chinese Dora) as a kid. I am glad to have been exposed to so many different languages and cultures, because now when I learn about a place or people I’m unfamiliar with, I know that there exist more ways of living and seeing the world than a singular one I have grown up with. I am proud to speak Spanish and have lived in Chile and Uruguay, and proud to be Chinese American. My multicultural identity—my yogurt, some could say—may take an unconventional shape, but at the end of the day I treasure all of the cultures I have experienced, in whatever quantity or form that exposure was in.

51 51

Geometry of Belonging We have always been mistaken for echoes, two voices overlapping, two faces tilted the same way, as if the universe had drawn the same line twice But look closer: her birthmark, my dimple, our scars carved by different hours. We resemble, but never match. We mirror, but never merge. We are raindrops racing down the same pane, separate courses cutting toward the edge. Sometimes we blur, sometimes we hold our lines apart, yet the glass belongs to us both. We are double rainbows, born from the same storm, arching in colors that double the sky’s beauty.

written by Ameyaa Desai | edited by Makie Koizumi | designed by Julia Landicho

When the rain slows, we stay side by side in the fading light. Two traces the window keeps, uncrossed paths that gleam together. Even in stillness, our parallels catch the sun, and the light between us burns. She is a steady flame carried from room to room, unwavering in its glow. I am a spark that leaps and startles, burning brief but bright. Together we light what neither could alone. When the world presses in, we do not bend apart. We move in quiet tandem, a rhythm held between us, a shape the years cannot erase. Not reflection, not repetition, but a steady proof of presence. We carry each other forward, two lines, side by side, the geometry of belonging. 53

Tang, I miss you as much today as have never forgot I ever have. I ten our days toge th er ; the only light in they were my darkness. My love for you remains unchan ged. I will never forget

my ox outside ger, s e red mailb u Hello stran e letter in th ed mysterio strange lov side vanish e, . I found a r I placed in who you ar Ye Haitang o, the lette on’t know My name is was it from you? Als pening? I d , please write back. what is hap u Bookstore— you know reaches yo u get it? Do thread of hope. If this ly—did yo a Waiting, n o g in it but I’m wr e Haitang Y 12, 1991 September

oo you. d on. ir is t a o t p s g l e n o ed comi longer h ut th m HIM. m b a , y I o t ili fro nn ny, ossib reak free e Gran me—I ca p y r ive d eve , never b , I choos e t s Forg u ft n a , exh this tow I have le here. g n i th e th pe every ever esca tle streng left for m . d e i r g lit er It ln s, I wil With the is nothin my moth . y v knes a a e . d r e d he e n w e u y th. Th so tir er fo ell. for m — I am etched pa hat I nev e arew g F m e t r n is giv Haita 91 this w ly regret e for s e a Y e l p n 3, 19 tter, r My o e e l b s i m th Septe u see nd you. o y f i , fi Mom failure to y for m Ye Haitang, We are souls who clawed our way from the mud. N our wretchednes o one else can fa s, how the world thom the depth deemed our lives worst of it. I free of worthless. But th d you from that at was not the torment only to haunted by dem lead us into a de ons that dwell in eper abyss—one filth, and in shad ow. So much lies beyo nd our choosing, beyond any pow silent god to free er we have to alte you from this en r. I prayed to a d le ss pain, a pain in drowning in. Yet, which I am now I must try. With also all that I am, I w desperate to pull ill reach for you you back from th again and again, e edge. Never en ough. I remember whe n our hardship ha d a simpler shap e. I fought in the ing debts; you liv streets, collect ed caged in relent less fear. We wer said, like weeds in e rootless, you the wild. And ye t, I ch w er as is the most beautifu h the memory. It l time of my life— dusk fell, enterin th e time before the g the endless nig ht.

you. Tang Yixun 2026

Hello Ye Haitang,

Mom,

My name is Yu Nian. I found your letter in the red mailbox in Beixing City. We’ve discovered that only this kind of paper can pass through the mailbox. Perhaps we’ve stumbled upon a miracle—communication across time.

I know it is you. This is the secret sentence that only the two of us knew. I am your son, Shen Cheng. I don’t know how to explain what’s happening, but you must believe me. Terrible things occur in 2026. I need to know—are you safe in ’91? Is there a man named Tang Yixun near you? He used to be a MURDERER. WhatI am writing from November 12, 2026. If you are truly ever your relationship, stay away from him. Now. He in 1991, you can confirm a future event to make sure I will bring you danger. Trust me, Mom. am not lying: on the afternoon of September 23, 1991, a water spout will appear over the pier at Meiwang Shen Cheng Town. Afterward, the pier will be renamed “Longshui November 17, 2026 Pier.” --The love letter wasn’t from me. Do you know Yu Zhiyong? Have you received any letters from him? Please write back.

Shen Cheng,

I hardly know how to feel, but I believe something miraculous is happening. Tang Yixun is the person Thank you, closest to me. And I believe that he will never be the Yu Nian one that you said he is. Please believe he would never November 12, 2026 harm me. Why would you say such a thing? Can you tell me about us in 2026?

--Yu Nian,

The water spout truly happened—today is Sep -tember 23, 1991. It is a strange and wonderful thing to be writing from now to you there in 2026. I did receive a letter, though not from Yu Zhiyong, whom I don’t know. I’m sorry—the love letter that came by was torn before I could under stand it fully. I don’t know where Beixing City is. The mailbox only receives letters at midnight, when a cat leaps onto it. Can you tell me what is happening?

---

Ye Haitang November 24, 1991 What is your father’s full name? Is his family name Shen? Is he kind to your mother?

---

Tang Yixun November 24, 1991

Ye Haitang, Listen to me. On the evening of November 30th, you and Tang Yixun MUST NOT go to the mountainside.

Ye Haitang September 23, 1991 I know the hatred that burns inside you. But I am begging you, a bright future is awaiting you—one of light, and of peace. May you journey through this darkness and arrive, at last, among the stars. Yu Nian, Shen Cheng

Yu Nian, Shen Cheng, This may be our final letter. Whether it reaches you, we cannot know—but we must thank you. Do not worry. Tang Yixun did not kill. He will not be trapped in regret. Ye Haitang, too, is free. She was admitted to university. She has escaped the nightmare that shadowed her for half a lifetime, and now may live as she chooses, without fear. Tomorrow we leave this town. We may settle in her university city, or perhaps journey farther still. But we will walk forward bravely, hand in hand, no matter what lies ahead. In this new future we now share, will we ever meet you? Wherever you are, whatever you face, your kindness will pay you back. Goodbye, dear strangers who feel like family. The world is wide, life is long—may you find peace. Tang Yixun & Ye Haitang

two lives, one letter, a folded timeline. thank you for reading. 56

Written by Anonymous / Edited by Michelle Mei / Designed by Minhtâm Ong Assets from iStockPhoto and Au Fil de l’Eau Antiques

Halves Years are split into two At least in my life I find myself forgetting spring and autumn Since it's the winter and summer For the first half, I wear woven scarves, shiver, and throw myself into the familiarity of work It’s unbelievably dull With a sheet of ice washed over I live in the brisk city Where snow does not last long and birds do not speak. In the second half, The best half, I wear my hair up, dance, and let my bones soak in cadmium yellow I’m surrounded by green and bark And I’m where my mother’s home is I look up to see gentle beams, and bursts, and hope the next half, and all the halves will remain exactly the same no more, no less

I walked to my friend’s dorm on a late-September evening. The air had finally turned crisp and chill, finally a turn away from the suffocation of summer. My mother loves summer nights, the surrounding noises of crickets that seemed to come from the air itself. I find it unnerving. The constant warmth, day or night, the thought of a never ending day. There’s a stone path underneath my dorm that weaves through the unevenly mowed lawn that I always take even though it adds about a minute to my route. Anything to help romanticize my days, or whatever. But someone had dropped their drink on the third stone before seemingly collapsing by the eighth and unloading their regretful choices from the night before onto the slate below them, so I opted for the pavement. Campus has an abundance of large trees stuck in small squares of dirt, caged in by concrete. I always wonder how those roots can grow, if they grow. If they find ways to thrive below us, in a realm shielded from the sun, or if their strength is just a guise, if their foundation has grown too weak that one wrong move would cause them to collapse, like the first domino in a chain built by an overenthusiastic eight-year-old. Splayed over the boundary between the dirt and concrete was a small bird, one wing outstretched, bent at an uncomfortable angle that made it look like it was reaching upwards, as if in a final attempt to get back home. I told my friend about this bird, back at her dorm as I perched up in the corner of her bed. How I used a crumpled calculus assignment I found in my sweatpants pocket to lift it up, folding its wing back in place as I set it down in a crevice of the roots. How I gathered dying leaves from the tree branches and dirt from the pile by the dumpster to cover the young bird up, to let it decay away from the eyes and out from under the clumsy tread of early-adulthood apathy. How I placed a dandelion atop its grave because everything deserves some dignity in death. As I said this, I couldn’t help but feel like the very act of disclosing this to someone took away from any of its goodness. Like verbalizing it somehow destroyed its sanctity.

At night, I dreamt I was the bird, paralyzed with my arm bent backwards and upwards. I could not see what I was reaching for, but I could feel it. It made me afraid, yet there was a deep want within the act. My arm strained further and further upwards, until I felt it would tear itself from its socket. I awoke with a start just as my feathered fingertips began to brush it. Years later, I still don’t know what I was reaching for. But the small bird that lives within me has never stopped. At night, I feel it. When I dream at night, I find myself reaching for you. Do you dream of me, too? When I dream at night, I find you. at night, I reach for you. I dream for you. When you dream , Do you reach for me, too? I n e e d you to find m e . When you d o , n t

l e g o

d .

Dear Reader, I am so grateful for all of the lovely designers, writers, and editors I’ve met through the magazine. I am especially grateful to the Portrait Executive Board for allowing me to have this position and space to explore. I am so excited to share all of the initiatives and ideas I want to push for going forward! This is both my first issue and my first semester at college. At times being here at Vassar has felt incredibly surreal and simultaneously entirely normal. This issue’s theme on Parallels has perfectly captured my time at Vassar thus far. My small hometown with my family and the community I have found here have two vastly different social identities, yet, in both communities, a culture of care and love remains a top priority. Discovering the differences and unique identities of people who make up our communities is what can bring us all together. Portrait has helped to ground me and remind me why spaces celebrating diversity are so important to connect with others. It has meant the world to me to be a part of this issue and the magazine as whole. I hope to continue to understand the different parallels in my life and to cultivate the same culture of care and love that has been shown to me here. Thank you again to all of the wonderful members of Portrait.

All the best, Misha, First-Year Rep.

letter design | Michelle Mei back inner cover design | Anni Yu, Aijia Zou photos | Portrait Contributors

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