Now that Monty was back at university, I had the apartment to myself. That meant less scheduling conflicts—I was a light sleeper and could feel everything that Monty did when he was moving about—but that meant I was back to regulating my own time, too. I asked Tienne to be my accountability partner so it ensured I hadn't forgotten important appointment dates or events that existed outside my regular schedule.

Returning from a frustrating gig, I lost myself in the rhythm of preparing gỏi cuốn for dinner—boiling rice noodles, then wrapping it in rice paper with leftover romaine lettuce, mock meat and cucumber sticks. With a sweet Hoisin sauce dip, the resulting taste was fresh and hearty.

My parents had suggested using a grocery delivery service. At first I opposed it. The whole point with getting them on board was to prove I could do things on my own. I was young and able-bodied and didn't really need it, right? But after observing my workflow, where my long blocks of concentrated focus on certain tasks neglected other necessary housekeeping chores, I reluctantly agreed. With their support and my wider opportunities for gigs, I could afford skipping the sensory overload of shopping. The grocery service even had visual recipe cards to get me organized.

If only I had considered this option earlier, how much stress and headaches could I have avoided? I didn't have to do things the way other people did.

With a clean finger, I scrolled through my Instagram feed until a post from Monty appeared. It was one of those effortless panoramic poses that I didn't have the patience to pose for unless you had a photographer like Joachim. According to the description, Monty had been in the Skygarden this morning, which was a vegetable garden run by the university's engineering department—I remembered from researching for university programs because the irrigation system sounded cool. I couldn't imagine Monty having the gentleness required for gardening. Then again I hadn't seen him do many hobbies besides sports and video games, so maybe Joachim had dragged him into it—

Our video game night! I hadn't written it down. Or maybe I had, but I had stashed the note out of sight, rendering it useless. Sure enough, Monty was online on Instagram. We switched to video chat.

"You look like you would rather be sleeping," I said.

He covered his yawn with a hand. He might have lipread the last word I said, or just guessed from context. "I would if I could. But since we're here, I have something to show you."

Sharing his computer screen, Monty loaded Chain Reaction and navigated to "Settings." After switching modes, he loaded the main screen again and started a New Game. Immediately I noticed how he adjusted the traveling mechanics so you could teleport from one place to another instead of grinding through the same locations again and again. But it wasn't until I stared at the background pixel art for a good minute that everything clicked. The tall clustered spires of the glass buildings, the steamboats cutting across the harbourfront, the stylistic borders of bauhinia flowers and the red-and-white colour scheme....

I widened my eyes. "That's Hong Kong! But the current assets are less polished. And you worked so hard on previous game assets. Why did you change it now?"

With a mix of sign language and speaking, he explained, "I realized this game's been taking me forever to finish because working on it was like perfecting someone else's masterpiece. It didn't feel like it was for me anymore. You're right, you know—I shouldn't be making it to impress others. I want to enjoy my own game. And researching about my background's been interesting, so yeah."

I was quiet, then said, "I never heard you talk about your background."

"It's not important to me. But I want to learn more about it before deciding to keep it or let it go," he said, pushing his palms out and up in surrender.

I looked at the apartment's windows letting in natural cold light. Covered in condensation and melting streaks of ice, it blurred the outdoor view into a gray and green landscape. My soul had committed to music from day one even when I didn't openly pursue it. How was it possible to be apathetic about the parts that made you? And to take it in with such stride, like Monty, who was confident in his lack of knowledge for what tomorrow would bring.

No wonder I loved video games; you got to slide into the gloves of a pre-made persona with no doubt who you were playing as.

—

Monty reused the same character design and plot patterns but with radical changes to the dialogue, giving me a surreal experience as I compared the original alternate universe to this one. Chain Reactions actually benefited from revamping the setting, turning it from a backdrop to an immersive piece of the game. My favourite part was how the main character changed his exterior depending on who he interacted with. He had little internal dialogue relating to his thoughts about the secondary characters, so it left you guessing what he really thought about others.

We played until my eyes stung from staring at a screen. Pausing on the screen where the main character was caught between the choices of lying, telling the truth, and abandoning the others to go solo and hunt down his missing friend, Monty professed the woes of writing multiple endings and making sure that they needed to feel impactful, even as he was certain only one ending was fitting for the game.

I leaned back, thinking how this new version of Chain Reaction touched me, though there were some obvious flaws to it too.

"What are you thinking?" Monty said suspiciously.

"...That this game is your fantasized life story."

"Expoooosed," said my laptop speakers. I cracked while Monty heartily cursed whoever said that on his side of the chat. That had to be one of his university roommates.

Monty sent a scathing glare. "Is it really that obvious."

"Yeah."

"Fuck. I need to fix that."

"No, don't!" I said, signing so furiously I knocked over my water bottle. It bounced harmlessly onto the sofa. "It was a lot better than I thought it'd be. Like, okay the dialogue is angsty as heck, and halfway through my suspension of disbelief was broken when he somehow evaded the police despite them having a criminal record and he used his real name? I don't think that's how the legal system works even in Hong Kong. And then there's this scene where he started a fight and I couldn't tell his character motivation, which I think you could cut out—"

"Well I'm keeping it because it's important—"

"But I love it!" I blurted. "I...the game is unpolished but I can appreciate it more through gameplay. It's not just technicalities anymore. It's a good game." And I learned a couple new things about him. One didn't insert specific details like having a secret vendetta against squirrels eating your plants if you didn't live through it yourself. "It's wholesome."

He spit in laughter, his face red. "T-Thank you? I guess? But seriously," he continued with signing, "that scene was needed because pretending to be someone else is going to dig his grave."

"Definitely not a tragedy," I said, hoping he'd pick up my sarcasm. I was sure I used the literary device correctly this time.

"No, really. It's part of his—it's part of me, okay? I can't wait for someone else to defend me."

"But you're just making it worse," I said, thinking of my gig earlier today. Fighting fire with fire scarred no one but you.

"Really," Monty said like he was reading my mind. Sign language forgotten, a sigh escaped through his nose and he closed his eyes like he was in pain, which honestly rubbed me the wrong way. "Tai, I know I've only been to one of your gigs and I can't understand everything, but didn't you see how James treated you because you backed out? Seeing you deal with that frustrates me."

"So what?" I said. "I deal with it every day. I'm not a pushover because I don't yell at the top of my lungs."

He threw up his hands. "Okay fine, I shouldn't have lost my cool—"

"You shouldn't have fought my fight," I said, and the facial expression that came with the sign of crossed fists wasn't forced.

He regarded me with a new expression, then jabbed a thumb to his chest. "This is me. I'll react and shout all I want because I refuse to shut up. If you got your end under control, then cool, but accommodating others' ignorance is going to put you in an impossible situation. Don't pretend you're not angry when shit's thrown your way."

Fire raged in my chest, choking me with its toxic fumes. I ended the call, grabbed my jacket and an old pair of running shoes, and flew down the apartment stairs into the biting cold. Fortunately the sidewalks have been paved, and I broke into a fast jog along a strip of sidewalk that hasn't been overdone with ice-melting salt. Only when winter was scraping my throat like nails on a chalkboard did I throw myself into the wet snow, rock myself, and muffled a scream. Orange-red light behind my eyelids glowed and waned.

When the world didn't feel like it would swallow me whole, I opened my eyes to see tiny rock sugar crystals embedded in the snow, like an inverse reflection of the night sky above. I wiped the frozen tears off my eyes and looked again. Shield was playing on my eyes. Though Monty was physically too far away to accidentally use it on him, it might not have made a difference. His frustration had ignited emotions that scared me. It was his anger, but it was also mine, the last of its embers dying before I could feed it and inspect it closer for what it was.

Fighting didn't do anything. But if all the bad and good gigs dissipated to a lurk-warm existence the moment I stepped offstage, what was all that singing for? What was it all for if I couldn't wrap my music around me like a shield and let it speak for itself?