"Lao Tzu once said that being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." My professor told us this during his lecture on Chinese Literature.
He also added that this is what makes love powerful.
I used to think that made sense, but as I reflect on it more deeply, its meaning becomes clearer, and perhaps the opposite is also true.
I sat by the window, my mind still, my fingers tapping against the chair. Though I found his topic interesting, it was still boring.
The tapping sound grew louder.
Thirty minutes more and the bell would ring. I gazed at the horizon outside; the sun began to bleed.
In front of me, a box sat, empty and vacant, with nothing to put inside.
As I continued watching the world outside the glass window, my professor called my name.
"Mercy!" he said, his tone was familiar, though I could not tell what it was.
I turned my attention to him, my eyes somewhat tired. He told me to stand up, but I did not comply.
I brushed him off. His words blurred into noise, indistinct and easy to ignore, filtering everything out. The only thing I could not overlook was my name, Mercy.
That very name. I do not know where it came from or how I got it. I do not know if it is my real name or just a nickname.
Yet one thing is certain: it was given to me by my mom.
In the dictionary, my name means compassion, leniency, or kindness shown to someone. In other words, forgiveness.
Why would Mom name me that?
Lost in thought, I did not notice the bell ring. Only when my teacher stood in front of me did I realize.
"Hey! What are you thinking about that made you stop paying attention to my lesson?" he said.
"I don't know, Sir, "I replied as my feet were already ready to leave the room. "Can I go now?
He sighed.
Maybe that is what it is.
I went to the park and sat on a swing, one hand holding the chain, the other holding the box.
It has been two years, yet I still cannot adjust to this new place. It is hard, really hard. The people. The place. The environment. This sudden change hit me harder than I expected.
Also, the reason why we moved to another town was still a mystery.
It is not that the answer does not exist. It does exist. It is simply… inaccessible. Like a door I cannot bring myself to open.
Still, the door could be opened, perhaps, and I am the one refusing to look inside cause I believe that as long as I do not know, I have not lost it yet.
Truth be told, I did ask about it once. Just once, because once was enough.
When I asked Mom, she did not hesitate when she answered my question, and somehow that made everything worse. No pause, no consideration, just a single clean and sharp response, as if it had been waiting for me long before I ever thought to ask.
"Curiosity killed the cat," she said.
Nothing followed, and no explanation came after. I understood, in a way that did not feel like understanding at all, that there would not be anything else.
So I stopped asking, not because I lost interest, but because something in me decided that wanting to know and being allowed to know were not the same thing.
Now I sit alone on a park bench, watching people as they pass by, though "watching" might not be the right word, as my eyes follow movement, but my thoughts do not.
They drift elsewhere, circling the same thought, moving around it over and over and over again, like tracing the outline of something I am not meant to see clearly.
I know the basic things about myself, but that is all I know.
Today is April 28th, my mother's birthday. She is turning sixty. I finally remembered. Maybe that is what the box is meant for.
"What should I give her?" I murmur, though the question feels less like something I want answered and more like something I need to fill the silence with.
I try to think of something meaningful, something appropriate, something that feels like it matters.
But each idea dissolves before it can fully take shape, slipping away the moment I reach for it, as if my thoughts themselves are unwilling to settle on anything real.
Then something moves, not in front of me, not exactly, but at the edge of my vision, where things are easier to ignore.
Yet I still notice it.
A cat.
It sits a short distance away, completely still, watching me in a way that does not feel natural.
I recognize it, or at least I think I do. It might belong to one of our neighbors. I have seen it before, passing by, existing quietly at the edges of things.
A small smile forms on my lips, though I am not entirely sure why.
Then the thought comes easily. It settles into my mind without resistance, without doubt, without the hesitation every other thought seemed to carry just moments ago.
"Maybe Mom would like to have this cat."
The cat does not move. It does not react either. It just sits there, watching, perhaps.
Then something shifts, not in the cat but inside me.
It starts small, so small that I almost mistake it for nothing at all.
A faint pressure, a thrill somewhere beneath thought, beneath awareness, like something pressing outward from inside my body.
It does not feel like a new idea. It feels like something is opening, like a kernel splitting apart.
Before I can examine it, before I can even decide whether I want to, I am already standing, already moving.
My body follows something my mind has not fully acknowledged yet, closing the distance between us until I am standing right in front of it.
I bend down and pick it up. It does not resist. That should have meant something, I think. Maybe the cat accepts me. Maybe it recognizes me.
In my hands, it feels lighter than I expected, fragile in some way, almost.
I raise the cat into the air, and then I notice its eyes.
They are uniquely golden and bright, reflecting the sunlight in a way that should have made them look warm, alive, and ordinary.
Click.
Something in me changes. I do not know. Is it really me or its the cat?
I look at the cat again. It changes. Its eyes begin to dim.
They no longer reflect anything. They feel void and empty.
For a moment, I think it is beautiful. Then the thought twists before it can settle.
Click.
It is no longer beautiful, not anymore. It is something else, something I cannot quite name.
Its dark fur seems to absorb the light instead of catching it, swallowing it whole until the shape in my hands feels less like an animal and more like an absence pretending to be one.
"Who are you?"
The question leaves my mouth too easily, the same way the other thought did, the same way everything seems to when I stop paying attention to where it comes from.
The "??cat??" does not respond; of course, it cannot.
It just stares at me, silent and unmoving, its gaze locked onto mine with a steadiness that almost feels intentional.
As if waiting.
No, not waiting.
Judging?
No, that is not right either.
Maybe asking. That is closer.
As if it is the one asking the question, and I am the one who does not have answers.
Why did I ask a "??cat??" ?
I do not know.
It will not respond, and yet I still ask.
My finger slowly moves to its neck and tightens slightly, not enough to hurt it. Not yet, just enough to feel it.
The "??cat??" does not struggle. It does not bite. It does not even try to move. It just stays still, watching.
I find it weird, really weird.
Just as I was about to put the "??cat??" down.
I remember the box.
An idea came to my mind. What if I put it inside the box?
Maybe it would change (return) once the box is closed.
Maybe the box would decide what it was.
I sigh, though I am not sure why.