Crush Me If You Dare

February 14th, 2014, 5:30 AM. I’m on a plane, again. From New York to London. Over 6,000 kilometers. Six months, and I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve made this trip. London, where he works now. I always imagine running into him on some random street corner, but it never happens. October 19th, 2014, London. The weather’s colder now, rain streaking the windows. Spent the entire day walking around the places I thought he might go. But still... nothing. February 13th, 2015, 1:30 AM. I’ve been staring at the confirmation screen for over half an hour. Cancel or delete? I’m staring at the ticket to London, which I’ve just canceled. I can’t shake the hope that wherever he is, he’s okay. It’s December 2017 now. And I’m scrolling through my private social feed, lost in thought. Two years ago, I posted those words. Back when I thought I might run into him—when I cared more than I’d care to admit. The post had lingered, a lingering reminder of someone who wasn’t coming back. But now, as I look at it again, it seems like a different life—a past version of me. “KiKi! Hurry up!” Ethan Blake’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. Ethan, my childhood friend, the one who always thinks I need his help. He’s the one standing next to me, suitcase in hand, eyes flicking between his watch and me. I’m not in a hurry, though. Not today. “Are you going to stop rushing me?” I mutter, barely glancing at him. He rolls his eyes. “Come on, we’re running out of time.” I ignore him, still holding my phone. My finger hovers over the delete button, and before I can decide, someone brushes against my arm. My thumb slips. Delete. It’s gone. I freeze. A wave of frustration sweeps over me. I look up, my gaze turning icy. Who the hell...? A group of people walk past, all dressed in business attire, except for one—tall, commanding, and wearing a black trench coat. It’s him. The man who’s just made my day worse. Henry Parker. He doesn’t notice me. He’s too busy talking on the phone, but I can hear his calm voice amidst the bustle of the airport. The noise of the crowd drowns out his words, but the name Julian Harris catches my attention. “Can’t make it tonight. I’m still at JFK,” he says, his voice crisp. “Let’s meet in Beijing tomorrow at 7:30 PM.” He turns to his assistant, a brief conversation follows. It’s clear: Henry Parker is a man who commands respect. And here I am, stuck in my past, watching him disappear into the crowd. Ethan comes back around, tugging at my arm. “What are you doing? Stop staring at your phone.” I yank my arm away, my anger bubbling over. “You think I’m still upset because of some handsome guy?” I snap, still steaming. I know it’s not about him, but the frustration still gnaws at me. Ethan, oblivious, chuckles. “He’s one of those mature, composed types, huh? Well, good luck with that.” I don’t respond. But then, he says it. “His name is Henry Parker.” The name catches me off guard. I look up, meeting Ethan’s eyes. “Henry Parker?” I repeat, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. “Yeah, the executive CEO of Wanhe Group. I’ve met him a few times,” Ethan continues, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. I don’t believe it at first, but when I pull up his name on my phone, the articles confirm it. Photos, his name, his title—it’s really him. I bite my lip. The memories resurface, the past I thought I’d buried. Soon, we’re boarding the plane, and as I settle into my seat, I open my phone again. The post from two years ago? Gone. I stare at the empty space, where my thoughts once lived. Instead, a new thought surfaces. A message to myself: "December 16, 2017. I ran into Henry Parker at JFK. He bumped into me. And that old post I couldn’t bear to delete? It’s gone, just like him. Is he my kryptonite? Or his?" The flight to Beijing is long. The exhaustion hits me harder than I expected. By the time I land, I’m disoriented, my body fighting the time difference. Grandpa Quinn is the one who picks me up from the airport. He’s always been the steady one in my life, the one who never falters. As we walk toward the car, he gives me his usual lecture about dressing warmly. "It’s freezing out there. You’re going to get sick." I smile, but it’s a forced smile. I’m tired, and my mind is still tangled in memories of London. He hands me a small bag, a bright red pair of socks inside. “Put these on. I’ll wait here.” I glance at the socks, feeling that familiar resistance. But for Grandpa, I comply. Even if they clash horribly with my shoes. Once in the car, Grandpa pulls out a weathered notebook. "You know," he says, flipping through the pages, "I’ve been thinking about my old games. The Chess Association’s anniversary today. I’m going to challenge Old Master Han." I look at him, a playful smile tugging at my lips. "Love letters from Grandma?" He rolls his eyes. "Stop making fun of me." But as he talks about his old games, his memories, I feel a twinge of longing. His calmness, his experience—it’s something I still don’t have. Not yet. "Reflecting on your mistakes," he says thoughtfully, "is the only way to improve." I nod, the weight of those words settling in. My phone buzzes. Ethan Blake. "I got your internship offer. So, are you still going for it?" I type back quickly. "Yeah. Can’t waste the time." His reply is a mix of teasing and concern. But I’m not in the mood for his jokes. I respond with a terse, "Go away." He fires back with a picture of Henry Parker. "This guy’s still on your mind, huh?" I don’t respond. As the car rolls toward home, I look out at Beijing’s skyline. It’s a city full of memories, full of chance encounters. But I know one thing—my story with Henry Parker isn’t over yet. And it’s only just beginning.