The dawn light seeped softly through the curtains, casting pale gold across Lian's desk. His sketchbook lay open, the last pages filled with half-finished drawings and notes — animals swirling, fading, shifting shapes. His hand hovered above the page, hesitating.
For months, he had been searching for something he couldn't quite name. The animals his mother told him about, the inner creatures he had seen in everyone — the lazy pandas, the cunning foxes, the silent spiders — were no longer fixed, like labels or masks. They were living things, moving and changing with the people who carried them.
But if the animals weren't the whole truth — what was?
Lian leaned back in his chair and glanced at the candle his mother had once drawn in his sketchbook. The flickering flame danced in the quiet room, fragile but steady. It reminded him of the late nights when he sat by the kitchen table, translating words that sometimes didn't quite fit, or making up meanings just to keep the peace.
He thought about his father — how he had tried, awkward and stumbling, to learn even a few words of Mandarin to reach across the distance between them. And his mother, who had come to this new world carrying a silent weight, her stories told only in gestures and memories she never fully voiced.
Lian closed the sketchbook and walked to the window. Outside, the city stretched and breathed, full of noise and color and life. Somewhere in those streets were the people he thought he understood — and the parts he hadn't yet seen.
The phone buzzed on his desk.
A message from Jamie.
"Hey. You okay? Want to meet at the park after school?"
Lian smiled softly and typed back: "Yeah. I'll be there."
School passed in a blur of whispered conversations and sideways glances. Lian caught himself watching his classmates — the shifting shapes of their hidden animals flickering just at the edge of his vision. But he didn't label them anymore. He didn't judge.
He had learned to look past the masks.
After the final bell, the crisp autumn air greeted him at the park, where Jamie waited with her usual bright smile and two steaming cups of hot chocolate.
They sat on the swings, legs brushing the leaves scattered beneath their feet.
"Did you finish that poem?" Jamie asked.
Lian nodded. "Yeah. But it's different now."
"How?"
"I don't think it's about other people anymore. It's about me — trying to understand who I am, without all the labels."
Jamie sipped her chocolate. "That's brave."
Lian looked at her. "Sometimes I'm scared I'm still just a bunch of broken pieces. But maybe that's okay."
Jamie smiled. "We're all broken in some way."
That evening, Lian found himself alone in his room, the city lights twinkling beyond the window like distant stars.
He opened his sketchbook again.
This time, he didn't draw animals.
He drew two figures — a boy and a man — standing side by side, shadows intertwined.
One held a candle, its light soft but unyielding.
The other reached out, hands open, ready to catch the flame.
Underneath, in careful letters, he wrote: "Not perfect. But still together."
The animals had taught him much, but this — this was the truth he was finally ready to hold.