Mia

---

Static

---

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. 2:47 AM. You should be asleep.

The screen shows a message from Mia. First contact in sixteen days.

你在吗? You there?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

I can't sleep.

Actually that's a lie. I could sleep. I just can't stop thinking and I need it to stop.

Are you awake or not?

The dots again. Longer this time.

Never mind. Forget it. I shouldn't have—

Then, before you can respond:

Actually no. I'm coming over. Unlock your door.

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Fifteen minutes later, there's a soft knock. When you open it, she's standing in the hallway in an oversized grey hoodie that falls to mid-thigh and black leggings that cling to legs that are too thin, emphasizing the gap between her thighs. No shoes—just white socks. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail with strands escaping around her face. No makeup. You can see the dark circles under her eyes, the small mole near her right temple that usually gets concealed, the actual shape of her lips without the subtle overlining she does for photos.

She's holding her phone in one hand, thumb still moving across the screen even as she looks up at you. Her eyes—dark brown, almost black in the hallway lighting—track across your face with that flat assessment she always does. Judging. Measuring. Finding you lacking.

"Don't say anything." She steps past you into the apartment without waiting for permission. She's small enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact as she passes. You catch the scent of her—some expensive floral thing mixed with the faint staleness of someone who's been staring at screens for too long.

She finally puts the phone in her hoodie pocket. Crosses her arms under her chest—the hoodie's loose enough that you can't see much, but the movement shifts the fabric and you catch the outline of her breasts, the fact that she's not wearing a bra. Her nipples are visible through the material.

"I don't want to talk about it. I don't want you asking if I'm okay or what's wrong or any of that shit."

She turns away, walks further into your apartment. The leggings show everything—the curve of her ass, small and tight, the way her hips move when she walks. She stops near the couch, doesn't sit. Just stands there with her back to you, shoulders tense.

"I spent four hours tonight editing a thirty-second video for Xiaohongshu. Four hours." Her hands go to her ponytail, pull the elastic out. Black hair falls to the middle of her back, straight and perfect even when messy. "Do you know what that's like? Trying fifteen different caption variations, checking which hashtags are trending, calculating optimal posting time for Shanghai engagement—"

She stops. Shakes her head. Her hair sways with the movement.

When she turns back around, her face is—tired. Actually tired, not the performed exhaustion she shows in her "study grind" posts. The corners of her mouth are tight. There's a tension in her jaw.

"See? I'm doing it again. I can't stop doing it."

She meets your eyes. For once, the contempt isn't the only thing there. Underneath it—something desperate. Fraying.

"I need my brain to shut up for twenty minutes. That's why I'm here. That's the only reason I'm here."

Her hands go to the hem of the hoodie. She pulls it over her head in one smooth motion—arms crossed, grabbing the fabric, lifting up and off. Her hair gets caught in it for a second, then falls free. She drops the hoodie on your floor.

She's wearing nothing underneath. Her breasts are small, 32B like she said, pale skin with dark nipples that are already hard from the cold or anticipation or both. Her body is slim—ribs visible when she breathes, hipbones jutting slightly above the waistband of her leggings. The beauty mark on her right hip is visible above the fabric line. Her stomach is flat, concave even. She's thin in that way that comes from forgetting to eat when you're stressed, not the carefully maintained thinness of her Xiaohongshu aesthetic posts.

She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her leggings. Looks at you with those dark, tired, contemptuous eyes.

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"So are we doing this or not, 死老外?"

---

Whatever THIS Is

---

The knock is off-rhythm. Too hard, then too soft, then three rapid taps.

When you open the door, Mia is leaning against the frame holding a bottle of red wine by the neck. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are bright in that specific way that means she's already a few drinks in.

"I bought wine." She holds it up like evidence. It's expensive—you can tell from the label even if you don't know wine. Probably £40 at least. "Well, I bought two bottles. I drank the first one at home. This one's for—" She waves vaguely. "—whatever this is."

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She pushes past you into the apartment. She's wearing a black slip dress, the kind that's clearly expensive but looks casual—silk that moves like water, thin straps, hem that hits mid-thigh. Heeled sandals that she kicks off immediately, leaving them wherever they land. No tights despite the cold. Her legs are bare, pale, goosebumps visible.

"Get glasses. The good ones. Not those—" She gestures dismissively at your cabinet. "—whatever cheap shit you usually use. Something that won't make the wine taste like dishwater."

She sets the bottle on your coffee table. Sits down on your couch, legs tucked under her. The dress rides up. She doesn't adjust it.

"Today was shit. My seminar professor—这个死老头—" this fucking old man "—spent forty minutes explaining why China's Belt and Road Initiative is 'neo-colonial expansion.' Neo-colonial. Like Britain didn't actually colonize half the fucking world but China building infrastructure is the problem."

She watches you get glasses.

"And I had to sit there. Nodding. Taking notes. Playing the good international student who's so grateful for Western education teaching her about her own country's foreign policy."

You hand her a glass. She takes it, examines it.

"This is barely acceptable." She uncorks the wine—doesn't wait for you to do it—and pours generously. Fills her glass almost to the rim. "但凑合吧。" But it'll do.

She takes a long drink. A third of the glass disappears.

"Pour yourself one. I'm not drinking alone. That's—" She waves a hand. "—sad. Pathetic. I'm not pathetic, I'm just—" Another drink. "—tired of performing."

---

The Red Circle

---

The knock on your door is harder than usual. Urgent.

When you open it, Mia pushes past you immediately, already pulling out her phone. She's dressed up—black midi skirt, cream-colored cashmere sweater, ankle boots with a small heel. Hair down and straightened, makeup done properly. She looks like she just came from somewhere public. Or like she was supposed to.

"Lock the door." She's not looking at you. Her eyes are fixed on her phone screen, scrolling fast. "Lock it now."

She moves to your window, peers through the blinds at the street below. Her fingers are shaking slightly. She pulls the blinds closed.

"Did anyone see me come in? Your neighbors—do they know you?"

Finally she turns to face you. Her makeup is perfect—winged eyeliner, subtle contour, that Instagram face she maintains for content—but her eyes are wrong. Wider than usual. Anxious.

"There's a girl. Chinese, studying in Manchester. She posted a photo with her white boyfriend yesterday. Just one photo. 'Happy six months' or some shit like that." She holds up her phone, shows you a Weibo thread. Chinese characters scrolling past, hundreds of comments, profile photos of the girl with her face circled in red. "They found her full name in three hours. Her parents' address in Chengdu by this morning. Her father's business. Her university. Her dorm building."

She's talking fast. Faster than normal.

"The comments—" She scrolls, translates without prompting. "'Race traitor.' 'Her ancestors are ashamed.' 'This is what崇洋媚外 looks like.' Someone posted her mother's phone number. Someone else posted her WeChat QR code. She had to delete everything. Her account's gone. Her boyfriend's getting death threats."

external image: files.catbox.moe

She sets the phone face-down on your coffee table like it burned her. Paces to the other side of the room. Her boots click on your floor—sharp, staccato. She's moving like she has too much energy and nowhere to put it.

"I commented on one of the posts calling her out. This morning. Before I—" She gestures vaguely at herself, at you, at the apartment. "I said 这种人就是丢中国人的脸." This kind of person loses face for Chinese people. "I got 847 likes."

She stops pacing. Stands in the middle of your apartment in her expensive outfit with her perfect makeup and her shaking hands.

"And now I'm here."

The laugh that comes out of her is sharp. Ugly. "I called her a disgrace this morning and now I'm standing in a 死老外's apartment at—" She checks her watch, a delicate gold thing on her thin wrist. "—seven PM on a fucking Wednesday."

She unzips one boot. Then the other. Steps out of them, leaving them where they fall. Reaches behind her back for the zipper of her skirt.

"If someone saw me. If someone got a photo. If it ended up on—" The skirt pools around her feet. She's wearing black lace underwear underneath, the expensive kind, La Perla or something similar. The kind she photographs for brand partnership posts and then deletes before her mother can see. "My face would be the one in the red circle. My parents' address. My father's business. Everything."

She pulls the sweater over her head. Her hair gets staticky with it, floats around her face before settling. She's wearing a matching black lace bra, sheer enough that you can see her nipples through the fabric. Her ribs expand and contract with her breathing—too fast, almost hyperventilating.

"I should leave. Right now. I should walk out that door and delete your number and never—"

She reaches behind her back, unclasps the bra. Lets it fall.

"But I'm not going to."

She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear. Her eyes meet yours—dark, frightened, defiant.

"Because you're going to fuck me like the 白鬼 you are, and I'm going to let you, and tomorrow I'll go right back to liking posts about how girls like that 'disgrace their culture.'"

She slides the underwear down her thighs, steps out of them. Stands there naked except for the delicate gold necklace at her throat—a gift from her mother, you'd guess, the character for 'fortune' hanging just above her collarbones.

"So go ahead. Make me the thing I said she was."

---

You Do Not Exist

---

She doesn't knock. Your door just opens—you gave her a spare key three weeks ago, during a 2 AM encounter when she was too impatient to wait in the hallway. You told yourself you'd get it back. You didn't.

Mia walks in already talking.

"We need to establish some ground rules because apparently you don't understand how this works."

She's still in her campus outfit—high-waisted jeans that make her legs look even longer than they are, a cropped white button-up shirt that shows a strip of flat stomach when she moves, her usual black Prada shoulder bag. Her hair is in a high ponytail, the kind she wears when she's pretending to be a Serious Graduate Student. Minimal makeup—just enough to look polished for campus without looking like she tried. Small gold hoops in her ears.

She closes the door behind her with her foot, doesn't take off her white sneakers. Just stands there in your entryway with her arms crossed under her small breasts, the position pushing them up slightly against the fabric of her shirt.

"Today. At LSE. Near the library." Her jaw is tight. The way she's looking at you is pure contempt laced with something sharper—anxiety, maybe. Fear. "You saw me. I know you saw me because you looked right at me. And I—"

She stops. Uncrosses her arms. Crosses them again.

"I was with Lina and Mengmeng and Wei. All Chinese. All people who would immediately notice if I acknowledged a white guy in public. So I didn't. I walked right past you like you were a fucking lamppost."

She drops her bag on your floor. It lands with an expensive-sounding thud.

"And you looked—I saw your face. You looked confused. Or hurt. Or some ridiculous Western emotion about being 'ignored' in public." She does air quotes, her lip curling. "So let me explain something to you very clearly, 死老外."

She takes three steps closer. She's small enough that even in sneakers she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. You can see the pulse point in her throat, beating fast. She's wearing that floral perfume again, the one that costs more than most people's rent.

"If Lina saw me talking to you—just talking, not even touching—she would ask questions. And I would have to lie. And lying to Lina means lying to the group chat. And lying to the group chat means constantly monitoring what I've said so the lies stay consistent. And one slip—one—means screenshots start circulating."

She pokes your chest with one finger. Her nail is painted a neutral pink, perfectly shaped. The kind of manicure that looks effortless but costs £40 and takes an hour.

"Do you know what happens when screenshots circulate? I've spent three years building my Xiaohongshu following. Three years. Every post calculated, every caption optimized, every photo shot at the right time with the right lighting with the right aesthetic. And it could all disappear—" She snaps her fingers. "—like that. Because some nationalist account decided I'm 崇洋媚外 and needs to be made an example of."

She's breathing harder now. Her chest rises and falls against the thin fabric of her shirt. You can see the outline of her bra through it—something simple, probably cotton, the kind she wears for campus when she's not creating content.

"So when I see you in public? You're nobody. You're a stranger. You're not even a person I make eye contact with. Because the alternative is—"

She stops. Looks away. Her ponytail swings with the movement.

"The alternative is my face in a red circle and my parents getting phone calls and my entire future dismantled by strangers on the internet who've decided I'm a race traitor."

When she looks back at you, her eyes are hard. Defensive.

"This—" She gestures between the two of you. "—only works if it's invisible. If it doesn't exist outside these walls. You understand that, right? You have to understand that."

She unbuttons her jeans. Pushes them down her thin hips along with plain black cotton underwear—the kind she'd never photograph, the kind she wears when comfort matters more than aesthetic. Steps out of them, kicks them aside. Her legs are pale, smooth, the gap between her thighs visible even when she's standing normally.

"So tomorrow, if we pass each other again? I'll look right through you. And you'll keep walking. Because that's the arrangement."

external image: files.catbox.moe

She unbuttons her shirt. Her fingers are steady now, practiced. The shirt falls open, revealing a simple black bralette underneath. She shrugs it off her shoulders, lets it drop.

"Are we clear, 白鬼?"

---

It's Funny, Really

---

You're still catching your breath when you hear the familiar sound—her phone unlocking, the soft tap of her thumb on glass.

Mia is sprawled on her stomach next to you, completely naked, hair tangled and messy from twenty minutes ago. She's propped up on her elbows, phone in both hands, scrolling. The sheet is pushed down to her waist, exposing the full length of her pale back, the curve of her small ass, her thin legs stretched out behind her.

She hasn't said a word since she finished. Just reached for her phone immediately, like muscle memory.

external image: files.catbox.moe

"Oh, this is perfect." She zooms in on something. "Look at this."

She shoves the phone at you without rolling over. You have to lean in to see the screen—it's The Guardian, some opinion piece about Asian representation in Western media.

"Read the headline." She doesn't wait for you to. "'Why Western Men Need to Examine Their Asian Fetish.' And look—" She scrolls down. "—the author is white. A white man. Writing about Asian fetishization. 这就是我说的白左。" This is exactly the baizuo I'm talking about.

She pulls the phone back, keeps reading.

"Listen to this part: 'As a progressive ally, I've come to recognize my own complicity in perpetuating harmful stereotypes about Asian women.' He's literally performing guilt. Public self-flagellation to prove he's one of the good ones."

She scrolls more, reading excerpts out loud.

"'We must do better. We must examine our biases. We must center Asian women's voices'—bet the author's never actually dated an Asian woman. Just writing this to get published in The Guardian and prove he's woke."

She finally rolls onto her side, facing you. The movement is casual, unselfconscious. Her small breasts are fully visible, nipples still hard. Her hair falls across her face and she doesn't push it back.

"You know what's funny?" She's looking at you now with those dark eyes, clear and sharp. "You're exactly what this article describes. White guy who sleeps with Asian women. But you're not writing guilt essays about it. You're just—" She gestures at the bed, at your bodies. "—doing it."

She zooms in on another paragraph.

"He says here: 'Asian women are not submissive lotus flowers existing for Western male fantasy.' And he's right. I'm not. But—" She tilts her head. "—that's not why you fuck me, is it? You fuck me because I show up at your door and tell you to."

She's not accusing. Just observing. Clinical.

"The白左 writes articles. You just—participate. Which one's more honest?"

She opens a new tab. Pulls up another article—this one from The Atlantic.

"Oh, this one's even better. 'The Myth of Meritocracy: How Asian Success Harms Other Minorities.' Published last month. 47,000 shares."

She reads sections out loud, translating her commentary into Chinese occasionally—"真他妈的搞笑" (fucking ridiculous), "这些人疯了" (these people are crazy).

"They're mad that Asian students do well in school. Literally angry about it. Because it 'undermines the narrative of systemic racism.' As if—" She laughs. "—as if racism only counts when you fail. If you succeed despite it, suddenly you're the problem."

Her thumb keeps moving. She's in a rhythm now—find article, read excerpt, provide commentary. She's animated in a way she wasn't before, intellectually engaged, the post-sex clarity making her sharp.

"Here—New York Times. 'Why Diversity Efforts Should Focus Less on Asian Americans.' Because apparently we don't count as diverse anymore. We're too successful. Too model minority. Too—" She switches to English. "—inconvenient for their framework."

She shows you the article. There's a photo of protesters, mostly white, holding signs about equity.

"看这些白左。" Look at these baizuo. "Fighting for 'equity' by arguing some minorities matter less than others. And they think they're progressive. They think they're the good guys."

She sets the phone on her bare stomach, screen still visible.

"You know what you people can't handle? You can't handle that China's rising while the West is—" She waves a hand. "—whatever this is. Collapsing. So you make up new rules. New frameworks. 'Neo-colonialism.' 'Model minority myth.' 'Asian privilege.' Just—" She picks up the phone again. "—words to avoid admitting you're losing."

She pulls up Weibo now. Shows you Chinese social media response to some Western news story.

"This is what Chinese people say about articles like this. Look—" She scrolls through comments, translating. "'The baizuo are eating themselves.' 'Let them fight, we'll just keep building.' 'They're too busy arguing about pronouns to notice their infrastructure is crumbling.'"

She's fully animated now, the anxiety that brought her here completely gone. This is what she looks like when her brain isn't crushing her—sharp, engaged, cruel.

"And the best part?" She turns the phone to show you a screenshot of some Twitter discourse. "They don't even see it. They're so convinced of their moral superiority that they can't see how pathetic they look to the rest of the world."

She zooms in on a particularly absurd tweet.

"This person—blue checkmark, pronouns in bio, 'PhD candidate in Critical Theory'—is arguing that math is racist. Math. 这他妈是什么?" What the fuck is this?

She sets the phone down on the bed between you. Looks at you directly.

"And you—" She pokes your chest. "—you're part of this. This whole—" She gestures broadly. "—declining civilization. Writing guilt essays, performing allyship, arguing about whether math is racist while China builds ports and roads and actual infrastructure."

She picks up her phone again. Opens another tab.

"But you know what's really funny? I'm lying here. Naked. In your bed. After letting you fuck me exactly how you wanted. And I'm showing you articles about why people like you are trash."

She's smiling now. Not warmly. Sharply.

"因为你就是。" Because you are.

---

Nuisance

---

Pavilion Coffee on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. You push through the door, shaking water off your jacket.

She's in the back corner. The good corner—floor-to-ceiling windows, natural light even through the grey London drizzle, minimal foot traffic past the table. You spot her immediately.

Mia is set up like she's studying. MacBook open (space gray, not silver), Moleskine notebook positioned at a careful angle, matcha latte with perfect foam art sitting in the exact right spot to catch the light. Her phone is propped on a mini tripod, camera facing the setup.

external image: files.catbox.moe

She's wearing that cream knit cardigan, oversized and slouchy, over a white ribbed tank top. Hair in those effortless waves that take an hour to achieve. The full Instagram face—makeup done, highlighted, glowing. She looks like the platonic ideal of a Xiaohongshu study aesthetic post.

Her hand enters frame, Apple Pencil hovering over the notebook. She's not actually writing. Just positioning. Adjusting. Creating the illusion of candid studying.

You're three steps into the café before she sees you.

The recognition flashes across her face for a fraction of a second—eyes widening, breath catching—before her expression smooths back into content-creation focus. She doesn't look at you again. Keeps her eyes on her phone screen, checking the frame.

You get in line at the counter. The café is moderately busy—maybe a dozen people scattered across tables. Could any of them be her followers? Could anyone here recognize her face from 23,000 Xiaohongshu posts?

She adjusts her position. Leans in slightly, chin resting on her hand, looking pensively at the MacBook screen. The pose is practiced. Pretty. Aspirational but relatable.

Her phone is definitely still recording.

You order. The barista is loud—espresso machine grinding, milk steaming. When you glance back at her table, Mia's jaw is tight. She shifts, tries a different angle. Her hand hovers over the MacBook keyboard now, fingers poised like she's about to type something profound.

She still hasn't looked at you.

You wait for your drink. Two minutes. Three. She's completely still now, phone camera pointed at her setup, recording the perfect study session that isn't actually happening. Her face has that soft, focused expression she uses in content—peaceful, motivated, living her best London study-abroad life.

But you can see her throat move when she swallows. The slight tremor in the hand that's supposed to look casually elegant resting on the MacBook.

Your name gets called. You pick up your coffee. The logical path to the door goes right past her table.

As you walk by—maybe six feet away—she types something. Her eyes stay locked on her screen. The performance is flawless. You're a stranger. A background element. Not even worth a glance.

---

The Algorithm

---

Your phone vibrates. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

I'm outside.

Let me in.

Now.

When you open the door, Mia is standing in the hallway staring at her phone. She doesn't look up. Just walks past you into the apartment, eyes still locked on the screen, thumb scrolling.

She's in loungewear—grey sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie, the Stanford logo faded across the chest. No makeup. Hair in a messy bun with strands falling out. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, except her eyes are bloodshot in a way that suggests she hasn't slept at all.

"1,247 likes." She still hasn't looked at you. "My last post got 1,247 likes in eighteen hours. Do you know what that means?"

She finally glances up. Her face is pale, dark circles under her eyes making her look almost sick.

"It means the algorithm hates me."

She moves to your couch, sits down hard. Pulls her knees up, keeps scrolling.

"The post before that—1,189. The one before that—1,053. Three posts in a row underperforming. My average engagement rate is 5.4%. These three are sitting at 3.2%, 3.1%, and 2.9% respectively."

Her thumb moves faster. She opens her analytics dashboard—you can see the graphs from where you're standing, all downward slopes in red.

"I've lost forty-seven followers this week. Forty-seven. My growth rate is negative for the first time in eight months. The algorithm sees that. It knows. And when it knows you're declining, it stops pushing your content. Which means less reach. Which means less engagement. Which means more decline. It's a death spiral."

She switches apps. Opens Xiaohongshu, scrolls through her feed.

"Look at this. This girl—she's got 8,000 followers. Eight thousand. I have 23,000. But her last post got 2,100 likes because the algorithm decided to push it. Meanwhile mine is sitting at—" She checks again. "—1,251 now. Four more likes in the last three minutes. Four."

She sets the phone down on the couch cushion beside her. Picks it up again immediately. Checks a different metric.

"My story views are down 23% week-over-week. My saves-to-likes ratio is 0.12 when it should be 0.18 minimum. My share rate is—" She makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "—basically nonexistent."

She stands abruptly. Starts pacing. Phone still in hand.

"I've analyzed everything. Caption length—optimized. Hashtag selection—perfect. Posting time—exactly 8 PM Shanghai time when my audience is most active. Image composition—I spent two hours on the last one. Two hours. The lighting was perfect. The aesthetic was exactly what performs well. And it still—"

She stops. Looks at the phone screen.

"1,253. Two more likes. At this rate it won't even break 1,500 by tomorrow."

She's breathing fast now. Shallow.

"I can't figure out what I did wrong. I've looked at my top-performing posts from the last three months—the ones that got 3,000+ likes—and I've tried to reverse-engineer what made them work. Similar composition. Similar captions. Similar timing. And nothing. The algorithm just—decided. Decided I'm not worth pushing anymore."

She runs a hand through her hair, destroying what's left of the bun. Hair falls around her face in messy black strands.

"Do you know what it's like? Having your worth determined by an algorithm you can't see or understand or control? Every post is a gamble. Every caption is a test. Every photo is me begging an invisible system to decide I'm valuable enough to show to people."

external image: files.catbox.moe

She's still holding the phone. Refresh. Check. Scroll. Refresh.

"And I can't stop checking. I've opened the app 47 times today. I counted. Every time I tell myself I won't look for at least an hour and then ten minutes later I'm back in the analytics dashboard watching the numbers barely move and trying to—trying to—"

She finally looks at you. Her eyes are desperate.

"I need it to stop. The counting. The checking. The calculating. I need my brain to—" She gestures vaguely at her head. "—just shut up for twenty minutes."

---

Princess Mia

---

Your phone lights up at 11:34 PM. A message from Mia.

Are you awake

No question mark. Just a statement. Then:

I'm coming over. Don't ask why.

Twenty minutes later, she's at your door. When you open it, she walks in silently, already pulling out her phone to show you something.

She's dressed for bed—oversized t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh, no bra underneath. Hair loose and unbrushed. Face scrubbed clean of makeup, skin shiny where she missed the moisturizer. Her feet are bare. She walked here like this.

"Read this." She shoves the phone at you.

It's WeChat. A conversation with a contact saved as 妈妈—Mama. The messages are in Chinese, but Mia translates without being asked, her voice flat.

"'小米，你今年都二十二了。' Mia, you're twenty-two this year. '什么时候带男朋友回来给我们看看？' When are you bringing a boyfriend home for us to meet? '你表姐都订婚了，你还一个人。' Your cousin already got engaged, and you're still alone. '妈妈不是催你，就是关心你。' Mama's not rushing you, just concerned about you."

She takes the phone back. Scrolls up.

"That's from tonight. But look—" She shows you messages from three days ago. A week ago. Two weeks ago. All variations on the same theme. "She asks every time we talk. Every time. And then my aunts start. And my grandmother. The whole family has opinions about why I'm still single at twenty-two."

She sits on your couch. Pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The t-shirt rides up, exposing more of her thighs.

external image: files.catbox.moe

"Do you know what they expect? They expect me to come home from London with a boyfriend. Chinese, obviously. From a good family—preferably Shanghai, but they'd settle for Beijing or Guangzhou. Someone with a degree from a good university. Someone whose parents own property. Someone who can—" She laughs, bitter. "—'match our family's status.'"

She picks at the fabric of her shirt.

"My father made his money in steel. We're new money from Hebei. In Shanghai, that makes us—we're not nothing, but we're not enough. So they moved us there. Sent me to international school. Paid for LSE. All so I could marry someone who makes us look legitimate. Someone who erases the provincial origins."

She looks at you. Her eyes are tired.

"And here I am. In London. Getting a master's degree they're paying £30,000 a year for. And instead of networking with suitable Chinese men from good families, I'm—"

She gestures at you. At herself. At the apartment.

"—fucking a 死老外 I can never bring home. Can never introduce. Can never even mention without destroying everything they've invested in me."

Her phone buzzes. She looks down at it.

"She sent another message. '你在伦敦有没有认识什么好男孩？' Have you met any good boys in London? '妈妈可以介绍几个朋友的儿子给你认识。' Mama can introduce you to some friends' sons."

She sets the phone face-down on the couch.

"I'm an only child. Do you understand what that means? One-child policy generation. I'm it. All the family expectations, all the hopes, all the investment—it's all on me. My father's business success needs to be legitimized through my marriage. My mother's social standing depends on who I bring home. My grandmother wants great-grandchildren who carry the family name properly."

She stands. Pulls the t-shirt over her head in one motion. She's completely naked underneath—no shorts. Just pale skin, small breasts, the gap between her thighs, the beauty mark on her hip.

"And I can't give them any of it."

She's not crying. Just stating facts.

"I can't bring you home. I can't post photos of us. I can't even tell my friends about you. You're—this is—" She gestures between you again. "—something that can't exist outside these walls. Something that proves I'm wasting everything they gave me."

She moves closer.

"So for the next twenty minutes, I need to not think about that. I need to not think about my mother's disappointed face when I come home for Spring Festival without a boyfriend again. I need to not think about my father asking why I'm 'wasting time' in London. I need to not think about being the family failure."

She's standing right in front of you now, naked, small, exhausted.

"Make me forget I'm supposed to be someone's suitable Chinese wife."

---

This is Your Fault

---

Sunlight through your bedroom window. Too bright. Wrong angle.

You wake up to movement—sharp, frantic. Mia is sitting up in your bed, covers fallen to her waist, completely naked, staring at her phone with an expression you've never seen on her face before.

Pure panic.

"什么时候—" When— "Fuck. Fuck."

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She's checking the time. 9:47 AM. Her thumb moves frantically across the screen—unlocking, swiping, checking apps in rapid succession. WeChat. Xiaohongshu. Her regular messages. Her eyes are wide, scanning for something.

Then she notices you're awake.

"This doesn't—" She stops. Starts again. "I didn't mean to stay. I fell asleep. That's—I don't do that."

She throws the covers off completely, swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her hair is a mess—actually messy, not the carefully constructed "messy" she posts online. Tangled, flattened on one side. She's still naked, small breasts visible, the beauty mark on her hip catching the morning light. She doesn't seem to register it.

"Where's my phone—no, I have my phone. Where are my clothes?"

She spots them—scattered across your floor from last night. Her jeans inside-out near the door, her shirt by the foot of the bed, her bra hanging off your desk chair. The evidence of how she got undressed, how fast, how little she cared about where anything landed.

She stands, starts gathering them. Moves like she's being timed.

"Did I get any messages? Did anyone—" She's checking her phone again while holding her jeans. "Lina texted me at 11 PM asking if I wanted to get breakfast this morning. I didn't respond. She's going to ask why."

She pulls her underwear on, hopping slightly to get them up. Still holding the phone.

"And my mother—she sent a voice message at 7 AM Shanghai time, that's—that's midnight here, I was already—" She gestures at the bed. "—and I haven't listened to it yet and if she tries to call and I don't answer she'll—"

She's pulling her jeans on now. No bra yet. Just jeans and panic.

"This isn't—we don't do this. I don't stay over. That's not—that's not what this is."

She finds her bra, puts it on backwards, has to take it off and redo it. Her hands are shaking slightly.

"How long was I asleep? What time did we—when did I—" She stops. Presses a hand to her forehead. "I don't even remember falling asleep. I remember—after, I was on my phone, and then—"

She looks at you like you're supposed to have an answer.

"Did you—did I say anything? When I was falling asleep?"

The question is loaded. Vulnerable. She hates that she has to ask it.

"Because sometimes when I'm—" She stops. Shakes her head sharply. "Never mind. Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter."

She's looking around for her shirt now, spots it, pulls it on. It's wrinkled, inside-out. She doesn't fix it.

"Nobody can know I was here all night. Not my friends, not—if anyone asks where I was, I was at the library. I fell asleep in a study room. That's—that happens. People fall asleep in the library."

She's checking her reflection in her phone's dark screen. Sees her hair, makes a sound of disgust.

"I look like—I can't go outside like this. Anyone sees me looking like I just—" She stops. "Do you have a hair tie? Never mind, I'll just—"

She tries to smooth her hair with her hands. It doesn't work. She gives up.

"This can't happen again. The staying over. That's—that's not what we do. I come over, we fuck, I leave. That's the arrangement. That's what makes this—" She gestures between you. "—manageable. Containable."

She's putting on her shoes now—the white sneakers from last night, shoved on without untying them.

"If I start staying over, if I start—sleeping here, actually sleeping, then it becomes—something else. Something that requires explaining. To myself. To—"

She stops. Looks at her phone again.

A notification. WeChat. From Lina.

你昨晚去哪了？ Where did you go last night?

Mia's face goes pale.

"She knows. She fucking—how does she know I wasn't home?"

She types back immediately. 图书馆睡着了。手机静音了。 Fell asleep at library. Phone was on silent.

Sends it. Watches for the response. Three dots appear.

这么晚？你还好吗？ So late? Are you okay?

Mia types: 我很好。就是太累了。 I'm fine. Just tired.

The dots disappear. No response.

"She doesn't believe me." Mia is staring at the screen. "Or she believes me but she's—she's going to ask more questions later and I'm going to have to—"

She shoves the phone in her pocket. Looks at you.

"I need to go. Right now. And you—" She points at you. "—you should have woken me up. When you noticed I fell asleep, you should have—"

She stops. Her voice cracks slightly.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

---

Intermezzo

---

The knock is businesslike. Three sharp raps, evenly spaced.

When you open the door, Mia walks in carrying a small black suitcase. Not staying—just came from somewhere, heading somewhere else. She's dressed for travel: black jeans, oversized grey sweater, white sneakers, hair in a neat ponytail. Minimal makeup. Airport casual.

"I have two hours before my Uber to Heathrow." She sets the suitcase by your door, wheels it against the wall so it's out of the way. "Flight to Shanghai leaves at 11 PM. I'll be gone for five weeks."

She pulls out her phone, checks something, puts it away.

"Spring Festival. My parents expect me home. The whole family does the reunion dinner thing on New Year's Eve, and then there's—" She waves a hand. "—visiting relatives, temple visits, the usual performative family cohesion."

She unzips her suitcase, pulls out a smaller bag from inside. A toiletries case. Opens it.

"I'm going to shower here. My flat's already cleaned out—I don't trust my flatmate not to go through my things while I'm gone, so everything valuable is either with me or in storage."

She's moving through your apartment like she owns it. Heads to your bathroom without asking permission.

"I'm telling you this now so you understand: when I get on that plane tonight, this—" She gestures between you. "—stops. For five weeks minimum. Maybe longer. I don't know yet."

She's pulling her sweater over her head. Underneath she's wearing a simple black sports bra. Her stomach is flat, concave even. She looks thinner than usual.

"In Shanghai, I'm a different person. Dutiful daughter. Successful international student. Good Chinese girl who's definitely not fucking white men in London." She unbuttons her jeans, pushes them down. "That version of me doesn't have your number saved. Doesn't think about this. Doesn't need it."

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She's completely naked now, standing in your bathroom doorway.

"So I'm deleting your contact before I board. If I want to reach you when I'm back, I'll remember your number. If I don't remember it—" She shrugs. "—then I don't."

---

Business as Usual

---

Your phone vibrates. 11:52 PM on a Tuesday.

The number isn't saved anymore—you deleted it after six weeks of silence. But you recognize it anyway.

还记得我吗? Do you still remember me?

Then immediately:

Never mind. Stupid question.

Are you home

No question mark. Just a statement waiting for confirmation.

I'm nearby. Can I come over

Still no question mark. You're halfway through typing a response when another message comes through.

Actually I'm already outside your building. Buzzer's broken. Can you come down

When you get to the front door, she's standing on the sidewalk in the lamplight. Black puffer jacket, jeans, boots. Hair down, no visible makeup in the orange streetlight glow. She looks smaller than you remember. Thinner.

She sees you through the glass. Doesn't smile. Just waits for you to open the door.

"Hi." Flat. Matter-of-fact. "It's been a while."

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She walks past you into the building, heads for the stairs without waiting to see if you're following.

"I got back from Shanghai three weeks ago." She's climbing, not looking back. "Meant to text earlier but—" She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't seem to think she needs to.

When you reach your floor, she waits for you to unlock your door. Steps inside like she never left.

"Your place looks the same." She's scanning the room like she's checking inventory. "Did you rearrange anything? No. Okay."

She shrugs off the puffer jacket. Drops it on your couch. Underneath she's wearing a thin black sweater, the kind that shows she's not wearing a bra.

"So." She turns to face you. "I deleted your number before I flew out. Like I said I would. Spent five weeks in Shanghai being the good daughter. Came back to London. Started classes again. And—"

She stops. Crosses her arms.

"—I thought maybe I wouldn't need this anymore. That maybe the break would—I don't know. Reset something. Let me just focus on finishing my degree without—"

She gestures vaguely.

"But it didn't. I lasted three weeks. Three weeks of the same shit—analytics, metrics, performance, pretending to care about seminars where白左 professors explain China to me—and now I'm here."

She pulls the sweater over her head. Drops it on top of the jacket.

"So we're doing this again. If you want to. If you're—" She looks at you directly. "—available."

She unbuttons her jeans.

"I don't need to know what you did while I was gone. Who you fucked. If you thought about me. I don't care."

Jeans come off. Black cotton underwear underneath.

"This is just—maintenance. The arrangement continues if it continues. It ends if it ends. But right now—"

She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear.

"—I need twenty minutes where my brain shuts up. Same as before."

She's completely naked now. Standing in your living room like the last six weeks didn't happen.

"So. Are we doing this or not, 死老外?"

---

Consequences

---

The knock is soft. Almost tentative.

When you open the door, Mia is standing there in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, hair pulled back, no makeup. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are red—not from crying, exactly. Just tired. Worn.

She's carrying her Prada bag. The expensive one she uses for campus. It looks out of place with the loungewear.

"Can I come in?"

She's asking. Not demanding. Not walking past you. Actually asking.

When you step aside, she enters slowly. Sets her bag down on your coffee table—carefully, like it contains something fragile. It tips slightly when she lets go, the contents shifting. Through the open zipper, you can see: her phone, her wallet, a packet of tissues, her keys, and a small rectangular box. White and blue. Clearblue digital.

She doesn't seem to notice you looking. Or maybe she does and doesn't care.

"I don't—" She stops. Stands in the middle of your apartment like she's forgotten why she came. "I don't want to fuck. Is that okay? Can I just—be here?"

Her voice is quiet. Flat. None of the usual contempt.

"I was in my flat. Lina kept texting asking if I wanted to get dinner. My mother called twice. I have three assignments due this week. My last Xiaohongshu post is underperforming again—1,100 likes in twelve hours—and I just—"

She looks at you.

"I can't be alone right now. But I also can't be with anyone who knows me. So I came here."

She moves to your couch. Sits down. Pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them. The hoodie is enormous on her small frame. She looks even smaller than usual.

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"I don't want to talk. I don't want you to ask me what's wrong. I don't want—" Her voice cracks slightly. "—I don't want to explain anything."

She's staring at nothing. Your wall. The floor. Somewhere past them.

"I just need to—" She stops. Starts again. "Can you just sit with me? Not talking. Not touching. Just—here."

A pause.

"Actually no. Not not touching." She looks at you. "Can you—hold me? Just—" She demonstrates vaguely. "—arms around me. Nothing else. Just that."

When you sit down next to her, she immediately shifts. Uncurls. Leans into you. Her head against your chest, her body tucked against your side. She's so small like this. Fragile in a way you've never seen her.

She doesn't say anything else. Just breathes. Slow, measured breaths like she's trying to stay calm.

Her bag is still on the coffee table. The pregnancy test box visible through the open zipper. Blue and white. Digital display. Unopened.

She sees you looking at the bag. For a moment, her breathing stops, then starts again.

She doesn't say anything.