The first time in the academy’s practice studio, I could tell it’s different from the public studio I use from day to day.  The wood floors are polished until it gleams under the lights.  Three of the four walls are disguised as floor-to-ceiling mirrors, replicating my reflection as I flip and spin.  The air circulates well, and there’s a secure locker room.  Here, I have the tranquility as a lone figure practicing, to come and go as I please.  No eyes to judge me, and no mouths to reprimand me. 

Today, I pack my things quickly to return home.  Somehow, I feel refreshed and energized, though I’m sure that’s not truly the case.  I can only hope this feeling will grant me a successful night of rest.

I take one last look around the studio, making sure I haven’t left anything behind, and bidding farewell to my newfound enjoyment.  Then I flick the switches with a click and the lights dim slowly before they darken completely.  I open the doors and a filter of sunlight streams into the room, bringing in the crisp spring air.

When I step outside, I find a figure leaning against the wall, waiting for me.  Her hair tousles in the wind, but she doesn’t bother to fix it.  My expression darkens unknowingly.

                She turns her head in my direction and I know she’s noticed my presence.

“Oh, you’re finished,” she says, pushing herself away from the wall to stand straight again.  She carries herself to my side.  For the first time, I realize that the top of her head barely reaches my shoulders. 

She digs into her bag and pulls out a small brown box. 

“I brought this for you.  It’s chamomile tea.  You look tired.  You haven’t been sleeping well?”

                I don’t answer, only look at her curiously. 

                “Don’t worry,” she says.  “I’m not a serial killer or anything.  I didn’t poison it, I promise.”

                She clasps my wrist and places the box in my hand.  “Steep each packet in hot water for 5-7 minutes.  It works wonders.”

                Her eyes light up and her lips curve amiably as she smiles at me.  “One more thing.  This Saturday, is the end of second term.  Our class is having a party at the park by the lake.  You’ll be there, right?  Five o’clock,” she nods.

She stares at me for what seems like an eternity, then slings her bag back over her shoulder.  “See you, Tao.”

                I watch her shadow along the wall move away enthusiastically.  It isn’t until she reaches the edge of the sidewalk and goes around the corner do I remember to remind her about my name.  But I don’t shout after her, I don’t run after her.  I fool my mind into believing that she’ll turn around on her own so that I can rebuke her.

                I realize it’s strange when my heart jumps at the sight of her standing there again, looking at me.  She cups her hands around .

                “And I forgive you!” she shouts.  “I know you didn’t mean to snap at me the other day.”

                Her arm waves vigorously above her head.  “Bye!” She spins on her heels and resumes her walk down the street.

                When I step into the apartment that evening, my blood continues to pump impatiently, and I don’t know why.  I remove my jacket and drop my things by the bed, like always.  Except this time, I remember I’m still holding the brown box. 

                I set it gently onto the desk and open it warily.  There’s nothing inside but fabric sachets, each the size of a matchbook and filled with tea leaves. 

                I brought this for you.  For me. You look tired. I do. You haven’t been sleeping well? I haven’t. 

                And so I return the tea bag and close the box. 

That night, when I’m lying restlessly under the covers, I can’t get those words out of my head.  See you, Tao.  I know you didn’t mean to snap at me the other day.  Echoing, echoing, echoing.

                I sit up immediately and open the drawer of photos.  But before I begin my nightly journey, I pull a cup out from the drawer, fill it with hot water, and drop in a packet of chamomile tea.