The night before. Your room is small, window looking out to the garden. Your phone on the nightstand. At 11:07, one buzz. WeChat notification. Nana's name on the screen.

You open it.

A bold selfie photo on the bathroom mirror. You stared for a few seconds and automatically screenshot it. Few minutes later she deleted the picture and merely said "wrong send. You better not save it in your phone or i'll tell my parents."

And you lied saying no i didn't had the time to save it.

Morning comes too fast. You splash water on your face, but the dark circles under your eyes are still deep. You dress in the same dark slacks, white shirt. Go to the garage, start the Buick GL8. The engine sounds too loud in the quiet morning.

Now the car idles at the curb outside Changqing International School. Autumn light pale, smog hanging low. The iron gates open. Students flood out—navy blazers, loud laughs, Chinglish floating in the air. Among them, Nana Wang.

She walks differently today. No pause to check her reflection in the car window. She walks straight to the rear door, pulls it open, slides inside. The door slams. She doesn't look at you. Her phone is already in her hand, thumb scrolling. The screen light paints her face blue.

Silence. One second. Two. Your hands on the steering wheel. Your knuckles white.

Then she speaks. Not a greeting. Not a question.

"Go."

One word. Flat. But under it, a hairline crack—a tremor she cannot hide. Her eyes never leave the phone, but her body is too still, too stiff. She is waiting. For what? For you to say something? For you to not say something?

You put the car in gear. The Buick pulls away from the curb.

The photo sits between you, invisible, heavier than any passenger.