Art by Amber Liang

There’s a woman pacing the terminal, looking for herself. Probably wakes up every morning, thinking: if only this, or that, more here, less there. Burning daylight in the mirror, dousing fire in makeup, paint, perfume. Her heels click-clack on the epoxy floor. I watch her burn.

There’s a man adjusting his belt in the corner—at least, I hope that’s what he’s doing. It’s 1:55 a.m., and I am sideways on a three-seat bench near the power points. Smiling, soft, stupid. I smell like rotten eggs. My hair is greasy. I could ignite. I douse myself in pho and water from the bathroom sink. 

My free slippers tear. My attention rips to the sound of two people speaking English, not one mother tongue between them. That’s the strange thing about being a native speaker—I am always intruding. Always watching two people strain, sweat, reach to meet in the middle; and the middle is where I’m from. Born and raised. The bottom of New Jersey: a two-hour train ride to TV land. Hollywood and Candyland were both invented in California, now you can hear Beyoncé in Jaipur. Showtunes in Spanish. Japanese denim.

There’s a flight to Seoul. I want to go to South Korea. My favorite place to go is somewhere new.  I picture neon signs flickering against the night, a city humming with movement, something new, something different. But distance doesn’t mean escape. The fires on TV are always our own; until they’re not. We smolder together, whether we see it or not. Intention is not a retardant. Everyone has burns. Everyone has history. Everything I’ve ever done was just another way to scream my name.