This Time It’s Real

The last day before the holidays, Caz rocks up to English class looking how I feel most of the time—

Like shit.

I mean, he’s still Caz Song, so his features are still aesthetically, geometrically pleasing, but there’s a sickly pallor to his skin, a kind of exhausted, bleary look in his eyes. Even his footsteps seem heavy.

“You look kind of tired,” I inform him when he plops his stuff down next to mine and slides into his usual seat. We’re meant to be answering the reading questions for Pride and Prejudice, but what with the prospect of imminent freedom and the dreary winter weather, no one’s actually working—including the teacher.

“Really? Because I slept very well last night,” Caz says. His voice sounds different as well, raspier than usual and quieter. This is the kind of thing I doubt anybody else would notice, but ever since our conversation in the darkness of the compound, I’ve been hypersensitive around him, tuned in to his every word and move, trying to decipher how he really feels about me. It’s been a long week.

“You’re not sick, are you?” I ask.

“Impossible,” he says firmly. “I’m never sick.”

Unconvinced, I lean over and press my hand to his forehead—and almost gasp. His skin is burning. “You—you’re really hot.”

Instead of reacting with fear or alarm, like any ordinary person would, the corner of Caz’s mouth tugs up. “You just noticed?”

I pull back with a scowl. “Don’t be conceited. I obviously meant your temperature; it’s way too hot to be normal.”

He waves my concerns away. “I’m not sure if you know this, Eliza,” he says dryly, “but human skin is meant to be warm.”

“Yeah, except your skin is literally burning up—”

He sighs. Turns and looks at me with such calm I want to scream. “Maybe my skin is just always this way.”

“Are you secretly a werewolf from Twilight, Caz?” I snap. “Because it’s either that, or your body is in a state of rapid deterioration as we speak.”

His lips twitch again, but his voice is firmer, more serious, when he says, “Don’t sound so certain. Touching my head with your hand isn’t an accurate way to assess temperature anyway.”

“Oh, well, sorry for not carrying a professional thermometer in my bag—”

“It’d be more accurate,” he continues, undeterred, “if you were to press your forehead to mine. Then you could properly compare the temperatures.”

I stare at him.

He stares back, a challenge in the sharp set of his jaw, the dark gleam of his eyes. He thinks this will be enough to get me off his back. He thinks I won’t be able to do it.

“Whatever works,” I say sweetly, relishing the flash of genuine surprise on his face before I wrap one hand around the nape of his neck and pull him forward.

Our heads touch, and at once I can feel the intense heat rising from his skin, his parted lips, the flutter of his long lashes when he blinks. And then the most wildly inappropriate and unhelpful thought of all time pops into my brain:

This is how it must feel to kiss Caz Song.

I jerk back so fast I almost pull a neck muscle.

“So,” Caz says after a pause. “What’s the diagnosis?”

“You have a fever,” I inform him, feeling somewhat feverish myself. Suddenly, I’m scared I went too far. What if he thinks I was trying to make a move? Or that I’d wanted to kiss him? Is it possible to detect these things?

The shrill ring of the bell cuts through my thoughts. When I look up, flustered, Caz is already rising from his seat.

“Are you going to seek out medical attention?” I ask hopefully.

“No, because I don’t need it,” he says, walking away before I can even protest, and I decide that I hate him. I will not talk to him, or question him again, or reach out to him. I couldn’t care less if he lives or dies.

Seriously. I mean it.

•    •    •

The moment I get home from school, I text Caz:

hey

are u feeling slightly better?

I stare at the message for a good fifteen minutes after it’s sent, as if I can somehow will it through the ether to wherever Caz is, but the little blue tick that indicates “read” doesn’t show up. Whatever. He’s probably sleeping. I slam my phone down and try to distract myself with a set of chemistry questions for homework.

It doesn’t work.

At 3:52 p.m., cursing Caz Song’s name under my breath, I message him again:

just checking to see if you’re still alive!!

But that doesn’t get a response either.

My imagination starts to run wild with the very worst scenarios: Maybe he fainted on his way home, and no one was around to help him. Maybe his fever was actually a symptom of something far worse, like cancer, or some other chronic condition that only gives him a few more months to live. Maybe he’s collapsed inside his own house. Maybe he’s already dead.

Logically, I know I might just be scaring myself for no reason. He might not even be that sick; it’s not like I’m a doctor or anything. Maybe he isn’t looking at his phone … Or maybe he just doesn’t feel like texting me.

But logic doesn’t stop my stomach from tightening every time I check my phone.

None of my messages have been read.

At 4:15 p.m., I curl up in the corner of my room and stress-send another string of texts:

hi, it’s me again

sorry for the spam lol but I’m lowkey really worried about u? Are u at home rn??

Then, realizing I’ve just admitted in the written word that I’m concerned about his well-being, I quickly add:

obviously it’d look really bad if my supposed bf just died of a fever one cold friday afternoon like some 16th century Victorian housewife …

i mean if you’re going to be in mortal peril, at least let it be bc of a dramatic horse-riding accident or smth

More time passes without any response. I force myself to help Emily with her English homework and Ba chop up scallions for dinner and outline a new blog post, all the while feeling my brain slowly disintegrating from stress. But I’m not just worried anymore—I’m pissed off. Angry that I’m starting the Spring Festival holidays checking my phone at two-minute intervals because I can’t stop thinking about a guy. Angry that even after all this time, he’s still too obsessed with putting up a front to ask for help when he needs it. Angry that I’ve already given him my heart and my trust, only for him to pull away time and time again.

Angry that I even care so much.

When 5:00 p.m. rolls around, I fire one final message of warning to Caz:

ok. look, caz song. if you don’t reply within the next ten minutes, i swear i’m going to personally write a 200,000 word enemies-to-lovers fanfic about u and a cactus and post it online and it WILL go viral

Ten minutes later, I grab my coat and march out the door.

•    •    •

Even though the sun has already disappeared below the horizon, leaving the air comfortably cool, I’m sweating by the time I arrive outside Caz’s apartment.

I knock on the door and wait for ages, more sweat trickling from my hairline and beading over my lips.

No one answers, but I can hear it: The shuffle of movement. A faint cough.

He’s inside.

So of course, I do what any composed, rational, completely nonchalant person would do: I bang both fists against the door and start yelling loud enough to be heard from the next building.

“Caz! Caz? Caz Song. I know you’re in there—open the door or else I swear—”

Without warning, the door swings open, and I almost fall headfirst into Caz’s chest. At the last second, I grab the doorframe to steady myself. I casually brush my hair to the side as if this is the accepted, normal way to show up at somebody’s doorstep when they’ve been ignoring your texts.

“Jesus,” Caz says, taking me in. “Eliza. What are you—”

“Are you okay?” I interrupt, then immediately feel like an idiot. He’s obviously not okay; he looks even weaker than he did at school, his complexion ghostly pale, his eyes pitch-black and feverish. He’s also in what appears to be his pajamas—a graphic long-sleeve shirt promoting one of his old dramas and boxer shorts—which is how I know for certain that something’s wrong. Under normal circumstances, Caz wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like this.

He seems to realize how he looks at the same time I do, because he suddenly backs away and starts closing the door again. “Sorry—it’s really not a good time right now—”

I grab the handle before he can shut me out. “What? You can’t be serious.”

But he doesn’t let go, and for a few absurd seconds, the two of us just stand there, teeth gritted, wrestling the door back and forth between us. It’s a testament to how weak he must be feeling that it’s actually a pretty even match.

“Oh my god, Caz,” I huff out, my knuckles white around the handle. “Just let me in—”

“No.”

“What’s your deal? You’re sick and you need help—”

“I do not need help.” He says it so vehemently my grip almost falters for a second. I almost turn away. I don’t have to be here, of course. Whatever this is lies well beyond the realms of our arrangement. But god help me, I care way too much about the stubborn boy on the other side of the door to go.

“Caz. Don’t be so unreasonable.”

“I’m not. I just think—I appreciate you coming over here to check on me and all, but I really think you should leave.” There’s a raw edge to his voice, frustration or even anger, though I can’t tell if it’s directed more at me or himself. “I … I don’t want you to see me like this.”

An incredulous laugh bursts through my lips. “This is not the time to be vain. I couldn’t care less if you’re in your pajamas—”

“It’s not just that. Nobody ever sees me this way.”

“What way?”

Through the narrow sliver in the doorway, I catch a glimpse of his face. The trace of insecurity there. The shadows under his eyes. Caz is the most image-conscious person I know, and he’s a wreck.

“Come on,” I say, pulling harder. “Think of it as—as doing me a favor. If you don’t let me in, and you end up dying, I’ll be the one facing charges for negligence as the last person to have seen you. The rest of my life will be ruined.”

He rolls his eyes, but I feel the door go slightly slack on his end. “Okay, that’s definitely not how that works.”

“I’ll be consumed by guilt,” I go on as if he hasn’t spoken. “The police will ask me: How could you just leave him there? And I’ll have to explain: I didn’t want to, but he basically shut the door in my face—”

His mouth tightens. “Fine. But I want to make it clear that you’re here by your own choice. I don’t need help or whatever. I’m completely okay.” The words have barely left his lips when he dissolves into a violent coughing fit.

I try not to laugh at him as I follow him into the house. At first, I think the situation might not be as bad as I feared. He’s walking well enough on his own, his back turned toward me, his every step stiff but deliberate, his shoulders thrown back as if he’s in the middle of shooting a scene. He even makes a point of checking his hair in the hallway mirror. But before he’s made it into the next room, he sways on his feet and doubles over right afterward, one hand gripping the closest table for support. His breathing uneven, his knuckles bone-white.

My heart lurches.

“Yes, I can definitely see how okay you are,” I mutter as I step forward and place one arm around him, trying to hold him up. His weight shifts onto me, and I nearly stumble under it. “You’re—you’re a lot heavier than you look.”

“It’s all muscle,” he protests, even as he’s struggling to stand up.

God, he’s ridiculous.

We manage to cross the corridor and enter the living room together—slowly, clumsily, like a pair from one of those three-legged races. But we manage it all the same. As I lower Caz onto the closest couch, one hand rested protectively around the back of his neck, the other around his waist, I scan the room. It’s messier than it was when I visited two weeks ago, with jackets strewn over the pillows and annotated scripts lying open on the coffee table, but there’s no sign of his parents. Not even a scarf, or an extra pair of slippers.

“They’re both on business trips,” Caz says, reading my mind. “A medical conference in Shanghai. Left a few days ago.”

“Oh.” This does answer what I was wondering earlier, but for some reason, I find myself still searching the tables, the marble high counter, even the carpeted floor, as if something else is missing … And then it hits me. “Isn’t there any water around here?”

He stiffens, confusion flashing over his face. “Sorry, did you want a drink? I’ll get you some—”

And he actually makes to get up from the couch.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” I rush to say, pushing him back down. He complies, but I can feel the tension in his arms, the rigidity of his frame. “I meant, haven’t you had any water since you got home? Or, like, medicine?”

He gives a slight, defensive shake of his head. Looks away.

“Well, have you had dinner, at least?”

“Dinner,” he repeats, like it’s a foreign word. “Does … chewing gum count?” He must see my expression, because he glowers back—though he looks so weak, it’s closer to a sulk. “Okay, it’s really not that big a deal.”

And even though I know he’s sick and I’m meant to be extra patient and caring and all that, I throw my hands up in frustration. “I honestly don’t know how you’ve managed to stay alive these past seventeen years. Like, do you just not eat or take care of yourself in any way whatsoever and just pray that your body will miraculously pull through enough to—” I stop abruptly when I see him smiling. My hands drop back down. “I’m sorry, is there something funny about this?”

“No,” he says, but the corners of his lips tug higher, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not. “Nothing.”

I glare at him. “Tell me.”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me.”

“Fine. It’s just cute that you’re so concerned, that’s all,” he says with a shrug.

I open my mouth, then snap it shut. For a moment, I’m rendered genuinely speechless. “I’m not concerned,” I finally force out, folding my arms tight across my chest. “I’m irritated. And horrified by your total disregard for your own health.”

His smile widens. “Clearly.”

I twist around, determined to ignore that smile. I’ve observed Caz Song long enough by now to know that he dials up his charms whenever he feels uncomfortable or at risk of being vulnerable. He’d flirt with a teaspoon if the situation called for it. “I’m going to make some food,” I announce, heading for the kitchen. “You just stay here and—I don’t know. Rest. Try not to die.”

“I’ll try my best,” he promises, mock solemn.

One of the more useful skills I’ve picked up from all the moving around is the ability to navigate pretty much any unfamiliar space. Even though I’ve only been to Caz’s place once before, and I’ve never set foot in his kitchen, it takes me less than a minute to figure out where all the pans and cutlery and ingredients are. Another minute to fill up a pot of water, turn the stove on, and start rinsing a cup of white rice.

Then I open his fridge, blinking into the white-blue artificial light.

There’s an alarming shortage of fresh vegetables and meat inside. A half-opened packet of Yakult and that popular Wanglaoji herbal drink Ma loves. Three canned lychees, two yogurts. An almost-empty jar of extra-mild Laoganma sauce, some withered spring onions, and a few bottles of fish sauce.

Hardly enough to scrape together a meal.

“Are you judging the contents of my refrigerator?” Caz calls from behind me. The couch is lined up with the kitchen entrance so that he has a fairly clear view of everything I’m doing.

“Yes. Very much so,” I reply, and glance back at him. “Is it always this empty?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How many people are at home. If it’s just me …”

I can guess at what he was about to say. If it’s just him, there’s no point in cooking or trying very hard at any of this domestic stuff. And judging from everything I know about him and his career and his family, it’s probably just him quite often.

“I’m fine with it,” he says abruptly, like he can maybe sense the conclusion I’m drawing on my own. “I mean, my mother’s home often enough, and my father—he’s literally busy saving lives. What kind of asshole would I be if I resented that?”

“I … don’t think it’d make you an asshole,” I tell him, picking my words with care. “I think it’d just make you someone’s son.”

The emotion that crosses his face then—it’s not something I can begin to put into words.

But it makes my heart hurt.

My attention is pulled by the sudden, violent boiling of water. I lift the pot lid before the water has a chance to spill over, and pour the white rice inside, stirring it a few times.

“I thought you couldn’t cook,” Caz says.

I roll my eyes. “I can’t bake, but I’ve been cooking for my family since I was nine. I’m pretty sure I can handle this.”

“Since you were nine?” There’s a curious edge to his tone, like he genuinely wants to know.

I hesitate. This isn’t the sort of thing I’d usually talk about, not even with Zoe, but he still looks so uncomfortable just lying there, so frustrated with himself, that I figure it can’t hurt to distract him. “Well, yeah. My mom was always too busy with work or away on a business trip to worry about dinner, and my dad’s work schedule was too irregular to allow him to cook at the same time every day, so I guess I kind of just naturally took over.” I stir the pot again. “I don’t know. The cooking itself has never really interested me, but I liked feeling like I was making a contribution to the family, you know? Proving I could help out in my own way.”

Soon, I have the porridge cooking and a bowl of pork floss and scallions prepared to sprinkle on top. When I turn around to check if Caz has fallen asleep, he’s watching me, his black gaze inexpressibly soft. Serious.

It makes me nervous.

“What are you staring at?” I ask, trying to sound casual despite the heat rushing to my cheeks.

He tilts his head, but the intensity of his gaze doesn’t waver. “Nothing.”

•    •    •

When the porridge is ready, I bring it over to Caz on a fancy tray, crouching down beside him as he sits up carefully, his back resting against the couch cushions.

“You can drink it yourself, right?” I ask, holding the bowl and spoon out to him.

He somehow has the energy to roll his eyes at me. “Don’t worry, Eliza, I wasn’t going to ask you to feed me.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to,” I mumble, but now I’m wondering if that’s what I should’ve offered. No, I decide. He’s running a fever—he hasn’t lost feeling in his limbs.

“Thank you, by the way,” Caz says as he takes the porridge from me, the white steam unfurling between us. “For—for all this.” He clears his throat. “I haven’t … No one’s really taken care of me like this in a long time. So. Thank you.”

“There’s a better way to say thank you, you know,” I tell him, hoping to keep things light. To hide the warm, exquisite ache blooming inside me, the forbidden impulse to set the porridge bowl back down and wrap my arms tight around him, hold him, have him hold me too. To offer him the whole world, protect him from everything that could potentially hurt him. “Just three little words.”

He stills for a moment, confusion rippling over his features, before he catches on. Huffs out a sigh. “I don’t—”

“Come on. You know what they are.”

“Eliza—”

“Caz.”

“Okay, fine.” A beat. His eyes lock on mine, a stubborn muscle twitching in his jaw, and the next three words that leave his mouth sound pried out, strained. “You … were right.”

I feel my lips split into a broad grin, savoring this small victory, the look of resignation on his face. “In that case, you’re very welcome.”

He pauses. Then adds, “And I’m also sorry, by the way.”

I look at him in surprise. “About what?”

“I don’t know. Things have just been a bit weird between us recently, and …” He looks like he’s going to say something else, and my heart lurches—but then he stops himself. “But we’re cool now, yeah?”

I swallow. Smile. Try not to dwell too hard on what he means, if I was the one who made things weird in the first place, if he’s still thinking about that day in the milk tea store, or maybe my embarrassing breakdown below his apartment. “Yeah. Of course.”

Later, he finishes his dinner and compliments my cooking (“It really is much better than the cake”), and I stay by his side until he falls asleep. Until the moon rises higher in the night sky.

And long after that.

As I look at him, so unguarded in sleep, I get this odd feeling in my chest—a kind of twisting sensation, tender as a fresh sore, sharp as the sting of tears. Overwhelmingly so. Like my heart is trying to climb up my throat.

I lurch backward.

Caz’s eyes flutter open, his gaze focusing on me, night black and intent. I feel a little shaky under the weight of it.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To, um.” My voice is failing. “To clean up—”

“Stay,” he whispers, the word falling so fast from his lips it could be instinct, a slip of the tongue, a mistake. He looks almost surprised himself, almost shy, though he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t run away, the way I would. And it’s only when I see the tense, rolling motion in his throat that I realize just how hard it is for him to be witnessed in his current raw, weakened state. To ask for anything from anyone.

It makes me want to be braver too, to offer him something in return. Something real, for once.

“I— Okay.” Slowly, I kneel back down by the couch. It’s so quiet in the room that I can hear my every staggered breath, the low creak of the floorboards as I shift my weight. Everything is shifting. Tilting. Careening wildly off course, and I’m not sure how to make it stop, or if that’s what I even want. “Okay. But on one condition.”

“What?” he asks, instantly wary.

“If you ever feel sick again, or hurt, or injured, or weak, you have to tell me. Don’t just keep it to yourself and act tough—”

He starts to protest, but I continue over him, knowing I’m probably crossing some invisible line but not caring.

“Because no matter what happens … we’re friends now, right? I want to be the person you know you can turn to. The place where you feel safe. I want you to feel like you can just be—human, in front of me. Like you don’t have to always show your best side. Okay?” I add when he opens his mouth to argue again. “Promise me.”

He swallows, hard. Sees something in my face—resolve, maybe, or all the worry I’ve been trying desperately to conceal—that makes him nod. “Fine.”

“Fine,” I repeat, letting out a quiet breath of relief.

“Good.”

A small smile curves my lips. “Great.”

And then, since I’ve crossed the forbidden line already, I reach over impulsively and stroke his hair gently, with one hand.

It’s soft. Even softer than I expected. Caz’s eyes fall closed again, but not in a tired way; on the contrary, all the muscles in his body seem suddenly tensed.

He only seems to relax when I scoot forward, bring my hand lower down to his arm, and tell him what I’ve wanted someone to say to me for as long as I can remember. What I’m still waiting for someone to say. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”