“I think I like someone.”

          Tzuyu confessed. She cleared , realizing her voice had cracked. It’s been a while since she told something this big to her mother. She eyed the screen apprehensively.

          “What?”

          She could tell she was doing something else, as her mother’s eyes distractedly flitted from one part of the screen to the other. Tzuyu sighed, wanting so badly to come home.

          These things were meant to be discussed in person.

          Tzuyu repeated her statement.

          Her mother’s face broke out into a grin, and Tzuyu felt another wave of homesickness hit her. She drew a deep breath and steeled herself.

          “She’s a girl.”

          Her heart plummeted when her mother leaned back from the camera, the grin slipping away from her face. She felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes, and she had to resist the urge to disconnect the call. But she knew that if she did so, she would have to answer to both her parents later.

          “Do I know her?”

          Tzuyu opened to respond, despite not knowing what to say. She didn’t even know what possessed her to say that embarrassing statement to her own mother. All she knew was that she just had to tell someone.

          “Well. Uh. She’s-“ the girl stuttered out.

          The door opened and Tzuyu’s heart nearly stopped. But it was only Dahyun getting her charger.

          The orange-haired roommate frowned quizzically in Tzuyu’s direction, but upon seeing the face of her mother on screen, placed a finger on her lips and dramatically tiptoed out of the room.

          “I’m getting out! I’m getting out!” she half-whispered.

          Once she was gone, Tzuyu turned her attention back to the screen of the laptop. She realized her mother was waiting for an answer. She could hear the faint tapping of nails coming from the video feed, a habit her mother does whenever she patiently waits for something (a habit Tzuyu believes she should break, as she felt turn dry and her palms sweat).

          She her lips nervously.

          “Can I-” she stopped, feeling a headache come around. “Can I talk to you later?”

Tzuyu rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. She wanted to run away. To run away from this incredibly awkward and intense situation that she had unknowingly created. To run away from the stare her mother was giving her, something she could feel even a thousand miles away. To run away from these warm fuzzy feelings that clouded her mind more and more often.

“Zu Yi.” Tzuyu could tell her mother was losing her patience. Yet, she reveled in her familiar voice, and the name and language she grew up with. She didn’t want to push her mother away. She could never.

Here, she wasn’t Chewy, or Joowee, or whatever people liked to call her. She wasn’t the extremely pretty and tall maknae that people liked to ogle and scream at. Here, she was the little girl who liked to cling onto her mother, the same one who used to cry during her first few years living in Korea whenever the mere topic of family, Chinese food, and Taiwan was chanced upon.

“I feel confused.”

Tzuyu realized was clogging up, and her nose blocked. She fought the urge to cry. She didn’t want a