A/N: Media is our angry lil Audrey/Tsubaki. 

I get angry over the simplest of things.

Everyone says I'm so full of rage that I must have trouble containing it. But at that point, they usually make a height joke— I'm six feet— and chortle to themselves about it being in proportion. How hilarious they find themselves. Worse, they'll sometimes make a further joke.

'Aren't Chinese people supposed to be small?'

And I used to grind out, through my teeth, that I'm not Chinese, I'm half-Japanese half-English, and yes, I can speak perfect English (and also Spanish), and no, I don't watch anime. That happened so many times that I've stopped answering to it now. Maybe that's where all the rage goes: I store it up, cell by cell, until one day I'll explode like a volcano.

The kids in my school used to call me Mount Fuji. We had just watched a documentary on life in Japan for geography when they showed a clip of the landscape, and someone yelled, 'Look! It's Audrey!' whilst pointing at the mountains, and because I'm tall, because I stand out, I never could blend in again.

I never said, Audrey isn't my real name. I never said I miss home. When you move countries at eight years of age because your parents have a promotion and your father becomes an English Professor, as though he's walked straight out of Hogwarts, you don't have much choice. I've been back to Japan every summer since, to see my grandparents, and each time I feel a little more of a stranger. Each time I feel a little more Audrey than I do my real name, Tsubaki.

They told me to change my name when I arrived, an immigrant with a name that was apparently too difficult for people to grasp.

'Tissue-back-eye?' one woman had tried and failed.

'It's a silent "T",' my mother had begun, when they'd asked if I wanted a new name. A nice, English name. Wouldn't that be nice?

I picked the first one on the page. Audrey. I'd felt too ashamed that my own name wasn't good enough for this country.

'My grandmother's name,' Dad had said, clapping me fondly on the back. 'It's fate!'

Fate. Maybe another reason why I'm so angry all the time.

I took up running when I got to senior school. It seemed a good way to get rid of my excess energy, my trembling anger, and best of all, I was fast. I'd lap the boys in the class easily, and they didn't like it one bit. Mount Fuji wasn't as slow and blundering as they'd hoped.

'Why are Asians good at everything?' they would grumble.

Because you don't invite me to your parties, so I stay in and study.

Because if I don't speak your language, you won't speak mine.

Because I try hard, and you don't.

I never said that to them.

Momoko was two years old when Mum and Dad brought her here. She doesn't remember life in Japan. They didn't make her change her name— Momo is apparently easy enough— and she doesn't receive less and less mail from her friends thousands of miles away. Momo is sweet and tiny and angelic, and she wants to be a veterinarian, because she loves horses.

Here's me, entering my fifth year of medical school, and feeling like the world owes me a favour. I must be a goddamn millennial. This is our curse: our pretty little heads think we can do anything, and reality hits hard.

There's nothing wrong with being a doctor, of course. It's a very good career. I can hear my mother saying it now, bragging to my grandparents. A doctor in the family.

'Tsubaki is a very good girl,' my grandmother would say, fondly.

And I'd be happy and miserable at the same time. Is that possible? I'm happy I'm being good. I'm happy I'm not a burden. I'm happy I'm a success.

But my camera sits on my shelf, disappointed.

Because my dream was always to be a film director.

Mum had frowned when I'd said that, and Dad had said, 'But Audrey, love, when have you ever heard of a famous Japanese director? Much less a woman? It's a difficult road.'

Maybe I'm angry because I'm part of the problem.

When I return for the semester, luggage in hand, Rosa greets me at the door. She's a small bundle of pink hair and smiling and quiet. Rosa doesn't do a lot of hugging. But even so, her welcome brings a grin to my face.

I haven't seen her for a few weeks. We've Skyped, and texted, and done all those things that are communicating without actually communicating. That strange in-between when we're all connected to each other's lives whilst being very isolated.

She looks well. A small knot eases in my chest.

This time last year, Rosa was in hospital. I don't want to see her return there.

'Ready to start our final year?' I say, as Rosa sets me down a mug of green tea, exactly the way I like it. I taught Rosa how to make proper leaf tea. I'm at a constant war with myself over which is better: English breakfast or Japanese green tea.

She smiles, nods, plays with the ends of her hair. I frown; I know when she's nervous, Rosa plays with her hair to do something with her hands.

'Are you okay?' my concern sharpens. My best friend curls her fingers around her tea, blows on it gently. I'm beginning to wonder if my assessment is wrong; maybe she's not well, she's hidden it expertly before, what if—

Rosa looks up and her eyes look at me, pleading. 'I was invited to a party,' she says, her voice a hushed tone.

The kitchen clock ticks. It's always five minutes behind. I'm not sure why any of us haven't bothered to change it, but it's been too long now.

I clear my throat. 'Don't joke around with stuff like that, honey.'

Her pink hair flips as she shakes her head. 'I'm not. I've been invited to a housewarming.'

If I were religious, maybe now I'd take a moment to cross myself. Then I let out a tremendous whoop.

'My best friend is going out of the house!' I make a triumphant fist and punch the air, laughing. Rosa joins in, until we're snickering, and our tea is jumping all over the place.

Once we've calmed down, Rosa wipes an eye of cheerful tears. 'I never said I was going.'

I throw my hands up in the air. 'Give me strength!' I yell, and that sets her off again. 'Who invited you? Do we like them? If we hate them, I agree, we turn it down.'

'We,' Rosa repeats, giggling. 'Are you my manager?'

I grasp the magnetic list on the fridge and pretend to use it as a diary. 'I'll schedule you in for your next psychiatric appointment on the first of next month. Until then, Rosa, Dr Andre said your treatment was to attend this party!'

She falls about snorting. 'Yes, manager!' she cries, 'But maybe I should send you. After all, parties are more your thing.'

I quirk a trained, painted eyebrow at her, folding my arms in a mock intimidating pose. 'And what is my thing?'

'You just love cliques,' Rosa says, listing of my literal nightmares onto one hand. 'You love parties which are drunk and laddish. You adore uncivilised behaviour.'

'Incorrect!' I fling down the magnetic list pad onto the table. 'You just failed our couples test! How could you?'

Rosa takes the opportunity to put a wallet down on the table. I screech in mock horror.

'Is that a man's wallet?' I prod an accusatory finger at her.

Fiddle fiddle fiddle. Rosa plays with her hair. She nods.

'Aha!' I yell, picking it up with encouragement. 'You're cheating on me! Who was it? Are you seeing each other? If you are and didn't tell me I'll—'

I slide out the ID card in the wallet and nearly drop it. Beautiful Elijah Graham pulls a blank, typical passport-photo moody glare at me. He still manages to pull it off. I grin in delight.

'How did Elijah Graham end up in your room?' I stuff the wallet, and ID, back into Rosa's hands, which tremble. I squeeze them reassuringly. 'Rosa, this is your chance to enjoy yourself! Screw Carter. I heard Elijah's single again; he split with his girlfriend before summer break.'

Do her eyes widen slightly, or am I just hoping?

'We have to get you ready!' I'm almost too excited to drink tea. Almost. When you're angry at the world, you can't afford to not drink your tea.

Rosa hums, a noise like she's not sure about something. 'Do you think I am ready?' she whispers.

I turn back to my friend, with her beautiful hair and her beautiful face and her soft, sad eyes, and want to scream at the world that told her she's anything but.

I fold her into my arms, glad for the first time that I'm six whole feet and can provide the comfort. The last party Rosa went to was when The Incident occurred, and I can't imagine how hard it is to return to a similar environment as that. But she's brave. And she's much better than she was.

'Rosa,' I say, and she clutches me back. 'I think you're as ready as you can ever be.'

Her reply is muffled. 'Will you come with me?'

I let out a laugh. 'As if I'm not having front row seats for this.'

'You're about to witness me throw a wallet at a man opening his door, and running back,' Rosa warns me.

'I'll make sure to assess how you throw the wallet. I'm sure there's a way to do it flirtatiously.'

'I should put my number inside the wallet,' she jokes, but I give her an appreciative nod.

'That's a perfect idea!'

'No, that's too embarrassing...'

'Maybe I'll write my number and leave it in there, then.'