My name is Ping An, meaning "peace." It's a cruel joke.
When I was six, I had a fever of 104 degrees. My parents sat at the mahjong table and said, "He won't die."
On my sixteenth birthday, there was only half a bag of frozen dumplings in the fridge.
Then I met Xiao Yao.
She remembered that I took three sugars in my coffee, and waited with me in the rain for the last bus.
The day we broke up, in 36-degree heat, I stood trembling outside her school for two hours.
"We can't be together anymore." She wouldn't meet my eyes.
Later, I became a bestselling author, writing about happily-ever-afters.
As the flashes blinded me at my new book launch, my phone suddenly buzzed:
"The last bus you've been waiting for. This time, I'll wait with you."
