I patted the guitar cable dry with a paper towel. Water from my bottle had leaked into my backpack and made contact with a vital piece of equipment. I'd brought a backup cable of course, so nothing had changed. I checked everything again for the fifth time and ignored how my heart ricocheted off my ribs. The sensation had eased slightly when I closed the door, and the dressing room smelled of new wood and untouched furniture. The line between anxiety and apathy was almost invisible.

Had the show started? Had it ended and I was the only one left in the bar?

I looked at the things that'd spilled out of my backpack when I'd thrown it to the ground. When panic took over me I'd have an explosive meltdown. I looked in the shiny dressing room mirror framed by print-out photos of Paris By Night shows and advertisements. Parted my hair and combed it. Adjusted my shirt even though the clock--right, there was a clock--said I wouldn't be performing for another two hours.

But my first performance started before I stepped on stage.

I surveyed this newer section of Quan's Restaurant and Bar. The sparsely placed balloons and the date on the newly painted mural hinted at the business' tenth anniversary. It depicted experimental dishes that made this business well known for. Chicken with cinnamon and rock sugar, sweet potato fried wraps, and homemade ice cream that was supposed to mimic the Northern popsicle specialty. Opposite the mural was the kitchen and front cash register. Above, the shrine and statue of Emperor Guan Yu (關羽) stood watch brandishing his halberd, the emperor-turned-deity protected the restaurant from thieves and promised success and wealth to the business he guarded.

The sounds of laughter, clinking bottles and music beats drifted from the cozy bar area. Only a keen eye would question the abrupt shift in tone between two sides of the restaurant. But I shouldn't be using my architect's eye tonight, as my parents had advised. Otherwise it'd burst out my mouth and hurt the owner's feelings. Maybe contrast was the point. A complete change to erase the memory of charred walls.

My family was seated near the front, chatting with family friends. Monty and Joachim were here somewhere too. Before I could search for their faces, my grandparents waved me over. Their gala-worthy outfits of tasteful clothes contrasted against my parents' simple fashion sense. Mom avoided wearing her áo dài anywhere she thought she'd be judged for her older appearance, and of course Ba followed suit.

"My grandson," Ong Ngoai announced with an air of pride. The family friends--a husband and his wife--regarded me. "He has been friends with Quan since they were young, and now he is here to help breathe life into this restaurant."

"Đẹp trai," the wife said with a smile. I recognized her as Quan's aunt. From a far-off memory, the image of her crying as she gave a speech beside her sister's coffin struck me. No makeup nor poised mannerisms could conceal her lingering grief.

"I'm glad you are doing well, Cô Ngọc," I said hollowly. "I wanted to support Quan by being here."

Her husband nodded sternly. "I hope my nephew was not blinded by loyalty when he chose you out of all the options he had. His parents are watching us from above tonight."

"Ông Khanh, why the resentment?" Ba Ngoai said with sweet venom. Despite her frail voice, or because of it, she demanded respect without words. The table fell quiet as my grandma gathered her breath like a dragon. "You are family to us. To imply Tai would deliver less than an excellent performance is insulting."

Cô Ngọc patted her husband's shoulder, her face reddening under her foundation. "Forgive him. He is the most protective of my sister's legacy. After the fire...."

Ông Khanh noisily cleared his throat, understanding his mistake. "It was like losing them a second time. My sincerest apologies, Tai."

Ba grunted.

"I wrote my songs with the memories of this restaurant in mind," I said. "Ba and I would always come here to bond." It was only on those quieter notes, lips loosened by alcohol that we could talk honestly about life.

The compliment seemed to placate them, and signaled to my family I accepted the apology. As we took turns talking, the family friends looked at me like I was some exotic zoo animal for not choosing a mainstream job. Some gnarled part of me shut down any ounce of empathy. While they reminisced about Quan's parents and the restaurant's old appearance, I kept wishing Nora was here. Telling my parents this idea was the worst mistake ever. News of me being in interracial relationships would've raised more scrutiny at this social event. It would need to be a better, more calculated time, but tonight was not for Nora to be part of, they said. She couldn't even come stealthily like Monty and Joachim who were sharing a cup of chè ba màu at another table, no doubt watching this charade. It would have made her feel "ignored," my parents said, and besides, wasn't it all over your social media? She could have asked you about it, they said, but she didn't. So there was no harm in leaving her out.

I wasn't going to tell them my Instagram posts had been disappearing. What was one more secret? To love was to spare one's feelings by making the truth invisible.

Right on time, Joachim waved me over to his table, giving me an excuse to leave the conversation. "You looked like you needed a break," he remarked in sign language. "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you to like, go outside and take a deep breath, but have you done that yet?"

"Yep," I said at the same time Monty confirmed with, "Yeah he did." Monty held out a spoonful of mung bean paste to Joachim and looked the other way.

Joachim happily accepted it, oblivious or perhaps purposefully so. "I could eat dessert all night," he said through chewing.

They didn't have to come. But I couldn't turn away Joachim's genuine excitement when he learned about my gig, and Monty being the attentive boyfriend he was, followed without a voiced complaint.

I should appreciate their presence more. "Thanks for offering to drive me home after."

A faint roar of laughter came from the further partitioned half of the restaurant, and with that, I knew Quan's small stand-up comedy show had ended. People started to flow back in the area and I rushed to my table of merchandise and handled a few more transactions. Stickers, magnets and CDs with my original illustrations of my album, "Subconscious Sprawl," slowly disappeared from the table. I put the cash in a tin cookie box. I'd chosen to sell things that were cheap to buy in bulk and easy to sell at a profit. A couple of buyers surprised me when they said they'd first known me from my project online. They congratulated me on my album release and asked if I had plans to celebrate. Another Q&A maybe? What else did I have going on? And where did those professionally-taken photos of me posing with dramatic backlighting come from?

I'd eavesdropped enough on other musicians' conversations to produce the carbon copy of a good answer: I celebrated the other day with cake, friends and family. I wanted to take it slow with experimenting for my next album. Yes, the pictures are part of an exciting announcement that I'd release once the details were finalized. If my audience was interested in a Q&A or something else, I had a poll so they could choose.

And yes, I had signed up for a panel interview with other artists, which included Gülay, at Radio for Equality. During the night I'd scratch my head wondering why I signed up for such a thing. Was it because it was far into the future? I could not remember why, but a few days later, I would recall the interview's theme centered around juggling work and personal life personas, and how neurodivergent and intersectionality of people managed to make a career. Of the life they wanted so much, but demanded in such a way that was usually impossible by normal standards to be successful or "on your own." It was the only fact that rang true, true in my anxiety--the one thing I couldn't mask tonight.

It went on. I became a marionette, calculating the right amount of words, the tone, the emphasis to put on every action I made. A dizzying number of people came up to me, asking "Is it really you?" and complimenting my merchandise, my songs, how I had inspired them. The praise I craved for so long, instead of making my heart soar like helium, only made me lightheaded.

I eyed Monty and Joachim's table with jealousy. They were just having a good time.

A tattooed hand appeared on my shoulder. I clenched my jaw.

Couldn't he see I was dealing with so much noise already? How many times did I have to tell him I didn't like people randomly touching me?

"Em ơi," Quan said with a charming smile. "Where did all these people come from? I might not have enough seats!"

My grip on the tablecloth loosened. I couldn't let Kimmy's script go to waste. "It's less than a fifth of your customers. Maybe next time I'll remind them to make a reservation. My parents say you've been off the grid. I was starting to think you wouldn't ever re-open. How've you been?" I spewed words like a hyperactive printer. Oops.

Thank Buddha he removed his hand, otherwise I would've slapped it away for him. I admired his full sleeve of tattoos, a mix of sino-Vietnamese symbols and animals from folklore. For each element of rebellious or questionable fashion choice my traditional grandparents would've objected to, it was tempered by his open smile, his neat haircut, the firm handshake that was a sure way into a Vietnamese elder's good books.

"So you weren't prepared for the crowd either," he said with a chuckle. "And here I thought I was too ambitious with the bigger floor plan." With a firm but friendly tone, Quan asked the people surrounding my table to form a neat line. The indoors volume instantly lowered by some decibels and stayed that way. Fans took the hint, customers quickly made their transactions without spending years window-shopping at my counter, and the throng of faces and limbs magically thinned out.

"Thanks. But I am offended you didn't ask me for architectural advice," I said.

"Trust, I'd be the most insufferable client you ever take on. At least give me credit for the stage!"

"The curtains are nice. There's enough electrical plugs. But there's no proper area for an artist booth. You kept complaining about that last time with the number of creative people you host."

Quan stroked his chin in contemplation. "Then I'll have to enlist you for your help next time, but as a creative."

Even when I tried to be insulting, he always took it like a champ. This was how our friendship, or lukewarm acquaintanceship, had remained intact between years of radio silence.

He picked up a copy of my album and examined it, lost in thought. "I could've been more strategic about the renovation. All of this was done on the fly. So I really appreciate you coming in. Your family's always been good to me. Your grandparents, especially. They were the first to support me with this place, and I'm not just talking about the hụi."

"The hụi was a joint effort," I said carefully. Here was my chance to learn more. "Isn't starting a phở restaurant one of the most classic immigrant things to do? You're hardly original for having that idea."

He shrugged. "My parents wanted us to keep our heads low. To give you perspective, they only trusted my education in the hands of white teachers, not Asians. Because us Vietnamese are smart--"

"'--But white folks will take us further,'" I finished. I'd heard that before.

"Anyway. Your grandparents were the ones to convince my parents--and the other contributors--that the hụi was worth it. It was rough in the beginning but who didn't want a taste of home? My parents went from being a pain in the ass to the most supportive backers of my business. I didn't--"

He cut off as a waitress whispered a question. He had a quick back and forth with her, ending with "I'll deal with them. They can wait."

Quan turned back to me. "Where was I? Right. I didn't know how to go on after they were gone. But your grandparents were there for me. Not physically, obviously, but emotionally. They taught me so much wisdom. They were the ones who really pushed me to resurrect my dream and re-open after the fire."

"Nostalgia...makes for good profit," I forced out. "They knew you couldn't fail."

He barked a laugh. "If only my parents had that mindset! It took seeing for them to believe. I wished I had more time with them and this restaurant," he said wistfully, "to see how it will grow from here."

He tucked the album copy under his arm and opened his wallet. Two twenty-dollar bills fluttered into my tin box. "I didn't think Vietnamese showed that much emotion--you know, all those stereotypes we laugh about because it's true--but it's like your grandparents taught me how to feel again. I'll always be indebted to your family for inviting me in. "

People lingered around us, not quite listening in, but Quan waved them away. His attention was solely focused on me.

"Nothing to say?" he said.

I was watching my mom across the room, maintaining a pretense of civility with her parents who had wrung her ambitions dry.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Am I spilling my guts out too much for a sober guy? My mistake. Last thing I wanted was to make you uncomfortable."

Servers started making their way from the kitchen, expertly balancing platters of phở bò, chả giò, cơm tấm like hot jewels. Patrons chatted excitedly. I yearned to indulge in the food which promised to taste as good as smelled, but my stomach twisted at the thought of holding it down. Thank goodness Quan had opted for wooden tableware over classic ceramics as part of his restaurant's cozy atmosphere. Still, this could turn into a sensory nightmare if I stayed for longer than I had to.

"Food makes people come together," I said slowly, "and there's no better way to share your culture than with a universal language. I'm not surprised they supported you.."

He broke into a wide grin. "That's why we need people like you too. We need creatives. People who can sing, dance, paint and exist outside of academia." He gestured to the crowd. "That couple over there, they're doctors who specialize in acupuncture and traditional Chinese medicine. You can see how East Asian and Southeast Asian folks would feel comforted with those alternatives. Our parents wanted that life for us, for prestige and security. But we're still helping! Just in a different way."

"A different way," I echoed. My rigid, traditional grandparents bent to the wills of whom they approved of. Was that the key? Instead of talent, connections, or intellect, did my mom merely lack a foundational ground of respect?

Perhaps recognizing his earlier mistake, Quan offered a fist bump. "Remember, my usual Saturday night crowd doesn't have this many young people. They're here for you."

Familiar faces disconnected from names waved at me enthusiastically from different tables. A few had donned the metal pins I sold them. Monty jutted his chin in my direction. Then there were the curious heads of older family friends, turned in my direction with intrigue.

"I should be rehearsing," I said, picking up my tin box of money. Shouldn't leave it unsupervised. "Thanks for talking."

"The pleasure's mine. I'll give your family some take-out for you to enjoy at home." Undeterred, Quan headed straight for my parents' table. That was him, the ever-conscious owner who checked up on his staff, chatted with his patrons and somehow remembered and cared about the most innocuous details of their livelihoods, so they would treat him with the same favour tenfold.

I threw a weighted cloth over my mostly empty booth and started making my way up the stage. Coins rattled inside my tin box, betraying my presence as I passed by my family. The distance to the stage was torturous. The delight Quan was able to elicit from my parents, and the raw pride my grandparents had for him, sped up my steps.

Monty gave me a curt nod. And it could be my imagination, but I heard members of the audience whisper words of confidence meant for me.

"It's happening."

"This is going to be awesome."

---

The backstage area was nice but the floorboards creaked, betraying my father's presence with his tell-tale limp. I didn't move from my spot behind the curtain. Quan was warming up the sea of expectant faces, their features well-defined by the restaurant's careful lighting. "...done this without my family, who are here tonight both in life and in spirit. To my mother and father, I miss your nagging. I can't ask for your approval anymore, and my decisions from this day forward might not be what you envisioned for my future..."

"I'm worried for you," Dad said.

I sent him a withering glare. "You know I hate surprises."

"Show them they're wrong. I want them to be proud of you," he whispered.

"They have someone else to be proud of," I said. "And that someone should've been Mom."

Quan called my name followed by polite sparse clapping and a few cheers. With my most vulnerable song in mind, I stepped into the light and strummed the first few chords, forgetting the opening remark I had rehearsed.

--

"Don't you know

Where I hide my heart

Spotlights glow

Cast shadows in the dark

Deeper than a knife your absence cuts into my mind

I'm not here

Until you open your eyes..."

Too shaky. I drew in a breath, a soft scream of terror into the microphone.

"I sang in darkness so light can't burn me

Now I'm frozen in ice, please tell me

Why must I see through your eyes?

Why can't I smile if I close mine

Anymore"

Every breath of air felt like an eternity. A death sentence.

"Hãy thấy em!

Tôi hát cả ngày và cả đêm

Để tình yêu của bố mẹ

Tại vì em thương bố mẹ nhiều..."

But I had to nail the second half of this chorus. Like Phiona coached me, I coaxed air to fill my lungs and stay in my belly. The back of my vocal chords stretched to pull the deepest part of my heart into the open--

And the high D I was supposed to hit crumpled into a C sharp.

"Hãy nghe em rồi!

Đây không có sự phản bội

Tại sao niên hy vọng bị châm biếm?

Đối mặt với sự thật:

Những ngôi sao em kiếm

Em thưởng nó sống ở trong đôi mắt

Của gia đình

Của mình...."

Soft consonants crystalized into sharp edges, choking what used to be elegant vowels. Words stretched into exaggerated doppelgängers of themselves. The lyrics no longer fit in my mouth and tumbled out as merely sound, with no meaning. Somewhere, my brain had unplugged itself and withdrawn. I pushed through on autopilot. Pretend my mistakes were purposeful. Pretend the crowd wasn't warping into a muddled mass of light and shadow. My voice was cutting out; I should adjust the microphone stand, and bring it closer to me after this song ended, but wouldn't that be the last song? How could I anyway without supporting my guitar at the same time? I reached out--

A distinct ripple of head turns and murmurings disturbed the audience.

"Ở đâu?"

"He was just there a moment ago."

"Tao có thể nghe mà không thể coi..."

"Did someone take a video?"

"Look, the mic's floating!"

Autopilot settings said, Leave it. Don't break it.

I crouched and placed the microphone on the stage floor. It might as well be floating, because I couldn't see myself. No translucent outline. No shadow in sight. The tears drying on my cheeks, and the weight of my guitar, were the only sensations that reminded me I existed. I withdrew behind the curtain before the rising tidal wave of clamor could sweep me away.

---

"Damn it!"

With each hit, I grasped for words. I grasped at my bleeding knuckles, crying because punching at a brick wall hurt less than admitting this was wrong.

"Your boy sang in Vietnamese...like a chicken learning to quack!"

"Im lặng là vàng, mẹ."

"Nếu Tai không thể hắt phía trước gia đình, tại sao hát nữa?"

"His covers of Gia Huy's songs were impressive. Shame it was just a cover."

"How embarrassing. Even Quan is red in the face."

"Xin lỗi nhiều..."

"You fed your poor son lies."

"Im lặng! We are not the only ones who speak Vietnamese."

That song had taken everything I learned from Phiona into consideration: tension and payoff, structure, chord progressions that paved a direction instead of circling the same spot.

None of it mattered when my power flared up at the worst possible time.

When my voice shook as I didn't know what I was doing.

"What are you doing?"

I stumbled away from the lamp light as Monty appeared at the alleyway's opening. He paused, looked around. Adjusted his hearing aid. The glare on his glasses made it impossible to discern what he saw.

"You found him?" Joachim's voice.

To my horror Monty walked down the alleyway to the restaurant's back end. Observed the bit of red I'd left on the brick wall. Swiped it with his thumb.

I breathed through my mouth in the cold embrace that was my mantle of invisibility. Deaf or not, tonight he learned a side of me that tied us dangerously close.

Footsteps pounded down the alleyway, and Joachim appeared. He raised his palms, a question.

"He isn't here. We'll wait for him in the parking lot."

A few drops splashed on my nose. Monty swore and quickly pocketed his hearing aids while Joachim wrestled with a collapsable umbrella. Then they were gone, a steady drizzle filling their absence.

The rain cut the clammy spring air and soothed the hot sting of blood on my knuckles. I stepped back under the small ledge and surveyed the sad expanse of brick, concrete and rust that faced the restaurant's posterior. Alcohol bottles and abandoned cigarette stubs littered the ground. Vents pumping out kitchen steam billowed upwards, thick and slow like time itself had tired out.

When my phone buzzed, I'd expected to see my mom's or dad's text messages. They would know to give me space before approaching later. I wasn't wrong, and I got more messages from Monty and Joachim, but seeing Tienne's name flash across the screen gave me the courage to open it.

TIENNE: Come home

TIENNE: Kimmy and I are baking egg tarts

She knew better than to expect I'd talk.

All those sweat and tears, and for what? To show my parents their faith in me was nothing?

I was a masterclass on failure. A precautionary tale on what happened if you asked the stars aligned for you, as if your determination made you different from the unspoken casualties lining the road to your desires.

I could already imagine the family friends whispering. My parents, dejected. My fans, disappointed. Quan, humiliated at his own restaurant.

Would it be so bad if I deleted my Instagram account? Scrap my artist profile. Erase the jeering comments that were sure to drown any ounce of confidence I had left in my craft. After all, my power had been messing with it already. Was this my heart's way of communicating to me? To stop?

The scene played out like a movie in my head. It was so vivid and perfect, it felt like minutes passed before I blinked and looked down at my phone, unsure if it actually happened. Screen dark. Wi-Fi, likely off.

Monty and Joachim were waiting for me.

My joints had screwed shut from anger. I spent time opening and closing my fist, relaxing my muscles and lining it up with the physical realm. My body was not built like a well-oiled machine to punch a wall over and over again. It did not relish in lashing out at the world just because I had a bad day. It did not yearn to disappear behind an invisible cloak, waiting to be found like a child playing emotional tug-of-war.

Instead, it housed the soul of a musician presented in my photoshoot: the stereotypical soft Asian man, the level-headed one, the awkward but well-meaning one who couldn't--wouldn't--raise his voice or punch a wall because he didn't get what he wanted. Meltdowns and blind rage were two different things, and I damn well knew the difference.

I texted my parents that I was going home early. Immediately my mom sent a voice message, telling me to not catch a cold. Three gray circles appeared as my dad texted, but I pocketed my phone. I was soaked to the core.

As for Quan, my family wouldn't let me off the hook without an in-person apology to him--preferably to him and his family. That could wait another day, but what must they be thinking now? What must everyone be thinking?

Another day. Another day.

Would any number of days fix this?

"Aha! Found--Oh man, what happened?" Joachim exclaimed when I reappeared in the parking lot. He insisted I go inside the car while he rummaged for first aid supplies. I took the backseat. Outside, Monty scowled and did a double take of our surroundings, clearly wondering how I caught them by surprise in an open area. He eyed my hand when he thought I wasn't looking.

"You should be careful," Joachim said, offering me chlorhexidine and a roll of gauze. He watched me robotically dab the disinfectant on my knuckles. He did not offer to take over, and I appreciated it.

Rain started to pound against the windows. Monty offered to drive. He didn't say anything as the car weaved through Toronto's entertainment district. I remembered blurred lights like the yellow glow of fireflies, the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers, the melancholic buildings of abandoned warehouses and burnt storefronts on Spadina. That silent lull of flipping through memories like pancakes, picking and poking at it, wondering when it'd all be done.