When Chan came back to the dorms he felt horrible. Every muscle in his body hurt and he could barely keep his eyes open. The last week had been even stressier than normally and honestly, the Aussie couldn't even tell why. It was just too much and his mind constantly telling him that he had to regress didn't make it better in any form. But now it was definitely to late to do anything except sleeping.

Chan's eyes and limbs felt heavy when the young boy went into the bedroom he shared with Seungmin and Jeongin. Jeongin was only in there because the window in his and Changbin's room broke and had to be repaired first.

Not finding the strenght to change his clothes, the leader just layed down to relax his tensed muscles. Tomorrow he should feel better again, right?

Seungmin was woken up by someone softly shaking his shoulder. The vocalist groaned and turned to the other side. It was way too early to get up. He didn't know what time it was, but his alarm didn't ring, so it was too early. The boy wanted to close his eyes again, when he heard a shaky "h-hyung?". As fast as his eyes were closed, they were open again. Seungmin sat up and looked to where the voice came from. Next to his bed sat Chan with teary, glossy eyes. "Channie, oh my god, what's wrong?" Chan just sniffled and the vocalist hurried out of his own warm bed to kneel down next to the pale boy. As soon as he had sat down, the Aussie burried his head in Seungmin's arm and started to tremble.

Already assuming why his regressed friend woke him up, the physically younger one asked: "Oh sweets, are you feeling icky and little right now?" the little just nodded and Seungmin pulled him closer, sighing: "I'm sorry that you feel that way ducky. Can you tell me what is icky, love?" "Nuh uh" "please Channie, I can't help you if you don't show or tell me" "Nuh uh" "You can't or you don't want to tell me?" "Nuh uh!" "pumpkin, that isn't a real answer" "NUH UH!"

The vocalist tried to suppress a groan. Little Channie was cute when he was feeling well but he already knew that that wasn't going to be fun. The boy gently rested his hand on Chan's forhead and the little leaned into the touch, calming down a bit.

"Seems like you run a slight fever, honeybun. Can I bring you in the bathroom so we can look how high it is? And we won't wake Jeongin." this time Chan nodded and Seungmin stood up and placed the sick boy on his hip to bring him into the bathroom and sat him on the closed toilet seat. Then he searched in the cupboards for the thermometer. After a few seconds the vocalist found it and took Chan's temperature. "You're having a bit of a fever, bubs. We have to bring it down so you feel less icky, I think we have fever reducers somewhere. Did you already eat something?"

Too tired to say anything (or eat anything), the little just nodded. "Okay, sweets, that is really good! Then you can just take the medicine and get all comfy after that. Does that sound good?" when he recieved a nod again, Seungmin just filled the glass they always had in the bathroom with water, took out the fever reducers and kneeled down next to Chan. The Aussie looked at the small pill that his caregiver handed him. "Come on ducky, it won't hurt you. And you want to feel less icky, right?". Chan thought for a moment before he took the pill out of Seungmin's hand and swallowed it. "Very good, I'm proud of you, Channie! Now lets get some comfy clothes, yours are all sticky from sweating."

After changing in some dry clothes, Seungmin picked the little up. "Is it okay if we settle on the couch, pupmkin? Then we won't wake up Jeongin." Chan just burried his head in Seungmin's shoulder and shrugged. As long as his hyung would stay with him, he was fine with everything.

He was almost asleep when the vocalist placed him on the couch. "Shall I go, stay or cuddle with you, baby?" the little whined and reached out to Seungmin again. "okay sweetie, it's okay, I'll stay and cuddle with you, don't worry. Hyung's not going anywhere." The young boy sat down next to Chan and hugged him tightly.

A few minutes later he heard how Chan's breathing became slower and calmer and he sighed. For now the little was asleep, wich was good.

But only seconds later Seungmin heard how someone tripped down the stairs. Jeongin came into the living room, just like nothing happend. Good mor-" the maknae grew quiet again when he saw the older one's sharp gaze. His eyes wandered down to the little ball that was curled up in Seungmin's lap. "Is everything okay with Chan?" I.N whispered, worry crossed his eyes. "No, he has a fever, probably catched the flu and he is regressed, around 2 years I would say. And it's not morning, it's 3 AM, which is in the middle of the nigh-" "Oh poor thing! Can I do something?" he looked at his hyung. " *sigh* Maybe make him a bottle? He should stay hydrated." "of course, I can do that!" and with that, Jeongin walked back upstairs to take the bottle out of the box where Chan had all his regressing stuff in.

When he came back downstairs, the maknae didn't only carry a bottle with him, but a wolf plushie and a paci. "I thought this could be useful too" he said and handed the plushie and paci to Seungmin before he went into the kitchen.

Just a few minutes later, Chan opened his eyes again. He hadn't noticed that he fell asleep. The young boy grabbed Seungmin's shirt and pressed his face in the soft fabric. "Oh baby, you're awake. Everything okay?" the little just answered with a whine. "I think that is a no, hyung. But he is sick, so I wouldn't even ask." Jeongin came back from the kitchen with the now filled bottle. He crouched down next to the couch. Chan lifted his head and looked at his other caregiver with with tear-filled eyes. "You want to drink something, ducky?" the maknae softly smiled at him, but the Aussie just whined again and burried his head into Seungmin's shoulder. "Why not, pumpkin? Are you feeling too icky?" as an answer, he got a mix out of a nod and a head shake.

Now, Jeongin tried to get the little to tell or show them what was wrong, because he already had an idea, since the little normally always accepted the bottle: "is your tummy feeling icky, love?" Chan nodded, tears welled up in his eyes. "Oh Channie, please don't cry, it'll be okay!" Seungmin looked at his regressed friend, who had started to sob, with worried eyes. "Jeongin, can you take him for a moment? I would like to get a bucket, just in case." I.N nodded and they switched their positions. As soon as Jeongin sat down, Chan curled up on his lap, burrying his head in the other one's stomach. The maknae started to stroke the little's back to comfort the still crying Aussie. He also tried to offer the paci but only got an headshake as answer.

When Seungmin came back with a bucket, I.N had started to walk through the room, with Chan on his hip. The older vocalist was always surprised how strong the maknae was. Sure, Chan wasn't a heavy person, but with his muscular figure he made a strong contrast to Jeongin's slim body. Even tho the youngest member had a buffy figure, compared to Chan he looked so breakable. Or at least normally.

When the younger vocalist noticed that Seungmin was back, he smiled sadly at him. "I hate seeing Channie like this." he whispered and gently looked at Chan, who rested his head on his caregiver's shoulder. "Is your tummy still feeling icky, sweets?" Seungmin walked over to them and started stroking Chan's hair. The little whined and nodded. "Aww, poor baby boy. I wish I could make it could away, pumpkin, really!" "Maybe he caught a stomach bug?" Jeongin tilted his head a bit. "No, I don't think so. If he had a stomach bug, he would've thrown up already." the younger one nodded. "But why does he feel sick then?" "I don't know, I.N-ah. Maybe it's the stress of the last weeks. Or the fever."

They stood like that in the room for a while, Jeongin had started rocking the little on his hip to soothe him, at least a bit. For a few minutes it actually worked, but then, Chan grew restless again. He opened his eyes, burried his head into I.N's shoulder and whimpered softly. "Channie, what's wrong?" as an answer, the maknae just got more whimpering. Seungmin noticed how pale the little was, nearly whiter than the wall. "Jeongin, lets bring him to the couch" the other vocalist said and I.N followed him. With Chan in his lap, the youngest member sat down on the couch. The Aussie hid bis head in the other's neck and Jeongin felt how tears started to wet his skin and hair.

Seungmin slowly pulled the bucket closer to them, fearing that it would be too far away to react if needed. "Are you feeling any better, sunshine?" the menatlly oldest asked, petting the little's head. Chan just shook his head and Jeongin softly asked: "do you feel like you have to throw up, sweetie?" the little shook his head even harder and the younger vocalist hastened to said: "okay, it was just a question, sweetie, it's okay."

Once Chan calmed down a bit again, Seungmin whispered: "we should try to get him to sleep, at least for half an hour." I.N nodded and turned back to the little. "Channie, do you want to try to sleep? I bet you'll feel much better after it." the little just nodded, wich shocked his caregivers. Normally they had to nearly force him to sleep, no matter which age. But they took it as a win without questioning. "We'll bring you to our bedroom now, okay, baby?" Chan nodded again and Seungmin lifted him from Jeongin's lap and carried him back upstairs.

While the older vocalist tucked the Aussie in, the maknae dimmed the light. When he turned around again, he saw that Chan was already asleep. "We should let him sleep. Lets go" he whispered and the vocalists went out of the room.

Just 10 minutes later, Chan woke up in a dark room, he recognized as their bedroom. Trying to figure out what woke him, the little sat up. He blinked a few times, until he realized the cramps that shot through his stomach.

Chan hunched over, his arms around his middle. Shutting his eyes, the Aussie took a deep breath. Come on Channie, chu can do dat! Nuh bein smow wight now! Chu too much when smow! Taking another breath, Chan felt how his head started to throb while he came back to his original headspace. And that gave him the rest.

With a gag he leaned over the bucket Seungmin had placed next to his bed. he gripped the sides of it, when a retch brought up some bile and the fever reducers Seungmin had given him. Now, Chan remembered something: he forgot to eat before taking the meds. Cursing himself, the Aussie nearly choke on another sudden wave of vomit that came up his throat, which started to hurt from all the acid and bile.

After minutes which felt like a lifetime, Chan was only left with dry heaving. Just when he thought about what he was supposed to do next, the door opened and Seungmin bursted through it. "Channie? Everything okay?? I heard someone retch" he looked to Chan, who was still sitting on his bed with the bucket between his knees. "Oh god, sweetie!" "It's okay, Seungmin, I'll survive it" the older one's voice was raspy from the acid that still burned in his throat but he tried to smile at the vocalist. The other one sat down next to him, put the bucket down and started to rub slow circles over the leader's back. Chan bit on the inside of his cheeks, trying not to curl up into himself and cry. "Did you wake up big, Chan?"

Chan just nodded, avoiding the glances Seungmin gave to him. Then suddenly the vocalist spoke up, with his caregiver voice: "what did we say about forcing yourself out of littlespace, Chan?" Only those words were enough for the Aussie, who slipped immediatly and he started to sob: "Channie sowwi! Didn't wan ubsed chu!!" Seungmin's eyes widened, he didn't mean to make the boy cry. He quickly pulled Chan into a hug. "Hey, baby, it's okay! It's okay, little one! You could never upset me! I'm just scared for your wellbeing because forcing yourself out of being small isn't good for you, you know ducky?" "B-bud I too much when smow an nuh feewin wew." "Who told you that, pumpkin? Because that is not true! You aren't too much, no matter which headspace you are in and all of us love taking care of you!"

"Nuh uh!" the vocalist sighed a bit. When the little was showing his stubborn side, he knew that he was probably going to loose. Not this time! This time it's about him thinking we lie to him about loving to care for him!

"But baby, how do you know that that is true, hm? And why should we lie to you?" "Meanie woices say dat." Chan looked up to Seungmin, tears welled up in his eyes again. "Oh Channie! The meanie voices are lying to you, sweetheart! They want you to feel sad und not loved but you are! I promise! Now, do you want to rest on the couch with Jeongin and me for a bit? You didn't sleep long and must be exhausted after getting so icky."

Chan nodded and rested his head on his caregivers shoulder, while he was carried back in the living room.

"Is everything okay?" Jeongin raised his head from the kitchen table he had rested it on and looked at Seungmin who was carrying a still silently crying Chan. "No. He threw up and forced himself out of his headspace because he thought he is too much to handle for us." I.N's eyes grew wide and he hurried next to his two friends. The maknae started stroking Chan's back to comfort him.

After the little calmed down a bit, Seungmin sat down on the couch with him. "Jeongin, the bucket is still in the bedroom. Could you maybe rinse it?" the I.N nodded and walked out of the room.

When he came back, Seungmin was still holding Chan as close as possible and rubbed slow circles over his back. "Seungmin-hyung?" the vocalist and Chan looked up and stared at the officially youngest. "No Channie, it's okay, I just have to ask Minnie something." the little layed his head back on his caregiver's chest and closed his eyes.

"What is it, bread?" Jeongin just rolled his eyes at Seungmin. "When I rinsed the bucket, it didn't look like he had... eaten anything lately?" the older boy stared at him. "What?? Channie?" the Aussie opened his still-from-crying-red-and-puffy eyes again and looked up to his hyungs. The maknae sighed, before he crouched down next to the couch, so he was able to look in Chan's eyes.

"Ducky, please be honest: did you eat something before taking the fever reducers? We won't be mad, we just want to know." the little's eyes widened before he hid his head in Seungmin's chest again and started to sob. The older vocalist shot I.N a death glare before he started to comfort Chan: "hey, hey sweetheart, it's okay! We aren't mad at you, okay? We aren't mad, sshh, please don't cry, baby, it's okay"

After a few minutes, the little slowly calmed down. Jeongin opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by the little's voice: "sowie Minnie an Innie fow nuh bein honesd. dat wasn't wight ow me" Chan looked down and a tear escaped his left eye. "Channie, you don't have to be sorry! Of course lying isn't right but it doesn't change that we love you! We are just worried about you because taking pain killers or fever reducers on an empty tummy isn't good for you. But I think you know that now" Seungmin said and I.N added: "Hyung is right, pumpkin! We love you, no matter what! And I'm sorry that I made you think that we would be mad at you. Did I sound too scary or loud?"

But Chan shook his head: "jus thought chu onwie sain dat so i sai truf. sowwie!" "You don't have to apoligize for that, love! It's fine that you thought that! We would probably think the same if we would be in that situation." Jeongin sat down next to his friends and smiled at the little. "weawie?" "Really, baby!" The Aussie sighed in relief and curled up between his caregivers.

After a only few seconds his breathing calmed down. "I think he's asleep." Seungmin whispered and pulled a blanket, that layed on the, couch over the three. "Think so too. Damn, only... 4 hours and I'm so fucking exhausted." "Jeongin!" "Sorry"

Both (really exhausted) caregivers closed their eyes and not a minute later, all 3 boys were asleep.

Half an hour later, Minho came downstairs to make himself a coffee. But when he walked into the living room, his heart melted. The sight of the youngest members cuddled up with their clearly regressed leader was just adorable! After taking a picture, the dancer noticed the painkillers and fever reducers, he knew why they were all snuggled up together at 7:30 AM. Lee Know smiled sadly and went in the kitchen to make some tea and coffee.

While the coffee was brewing, Minho opened the skz groupchat.

SKZ GROUPCHAT 💀💀💀

I know you know Lee Know: *picture*

I know you know Lee Know: Guys, don't be too loud when you come downstairs. Our babies are sleeping and Channie isn't feeling well (Ig)

Fried Chicken: NAWWWWWW!! But poor Channie :(

Air Fried: Cute, I'm gonna scream!

I know you know Lee Know: @Air-Fried, don't you dare!!

Air Fried: Sorry!!

The dancer shook his head and went back in the living room. The maknaes seemed more tired than the little and that made Minho chuckle. But hey, at least they all get a lots of cuddles!

☆*: .｡. o_END_o .｡.:*☆

She's not an angel either. She's got long dark hair tied back and tucked away under her wide brimmed hat. The glow of her rosy cheeks is perfectly captured by the lens, transmitted through the radio waves and projected as a warm haze on the CRT TV in the corner of the room. She holds up an orange to the camera and smiles. "There's a reason the angels love it."

I'm transfixed. I shouldn't be—I'm not an angel. Orange juice shouldn't have the same power over me that it does over them. It shouldn't, but I know I'd do anything that she asked of me for just one sip of orange juice. It shouldn't because I'm not an angel and because she is just an actor playing a farmer in an advert.

"Hey. Miss." The customer's sharp voice breaks me out of my reverie. I'm not an angel, I work at a post office. No, I don't deliver messages, divine or mundane. I just work behind a cashier's desk.

"I'm sorry." I focus on reality. I look down at the package, the address is inside the province so that means local rates. When I look up to tell her I see that her eyes are focused slightly above my face.

I hate it when people see the halo. That was part of the deception they hadn't been able to get rid of, seeing as it was made all of light, so it stayed there, above my head, glowing. I hate it. I hate it for the same reason I don't drink orange juice anymore, for the same reason I choose not to notice the white egrets' migration or why I never read the news about the war—I am surrounded by constant reminders of what I am not.

It isn't even reminders of what I lost, because I can not have lost what I never really had. I am not an angel and I never was an angel. I was lied to. Neither my wings nor my halo were ever holy.

I tell her the price, she hands me the money, and then I stamp the package and put it into the sack beside my desk. It's a normal job for a normal person.

On the way home from work that evening I make a stop for groceries. It's another thing that normal people do and I do intend to buy normal things. The shop is on a quiet little street lined with bushes that, at this time of year, are covered in little white flowers. I only live a few doors down so the old man who runs it knows me well. He calls out a greeting as I walk in.

First thing I put in my basket is a jar of fermented vegetables: the kind that are just a little spicy and have that great savoury flavour, I mostly eat them over rice. Then two scoops of buckwheat into a paper bag. I keep things very routine when I'm shopping because otherwise I might be distracted by—

I'm staring into the transparent door of the refrigerator. Rows and rows of cartons of juice. There's an image on the front of this southern farmgirl with long black hair and rosy cheeks. She's holding an orange up to the light, looking at it with a satisfied smile. It's been the same painting for years, That actor in the advert—this is who she was trying to be.

I shouldn't buy orange juice. I definitely shouldn't be finding myself staring, open mouthed and transfixed, at it. It must have been the advert putting thoughts in my head. Angels feel compelled to drink orange juice, everyone knows this, it's how things work in the war, how we got them to fight on our side.

I'm not an angel though. I'm not staring because of a deep need that was written into my bones. I'm staring because I was convinced that I had a deep need written into my bones. I don't. I was never an angel, my heart was never pure, my halo was always an imitation.

"You good back there?" The shopkeeper's voice pulls me out of it and I turn to him. I want to ask him about orange juice. I want to ask for a glass. I want to get on my knees and beg for just one sip of that liquid meaning. I want the absolution, the certainty, I want everything that I had once believed was mine. I want him to make my life make sense again.

It hurt when they cut off my wings. That pain is what I think of as I bury those desires. I dig my nails into my palm. If I am not hurt I will not learn. "All good, thanks!"

I walk away from those fridges full of temptation and head towards the fruit. Even back when I believed I was an angel, peaches had always been my favourite fruit. Maybe that should have been a clue that I was being lied to. I pick three fruits from this crate of beautiful fresh Sichuanese peaches. I let myself lick my lips. I let my mind linger on the anticipation of eating one of them later. This is a fruit I am allowed to obsess over.

I hand the old man my basket and he goes through the items: two scoops of buckwheat, three peaches, a jar of fermented vegetables. As I'm paying he says "Are you sure you didn't want that orange juice?"

Why did he say that? Why did he have to say that? I think of the pain again. I let it burn in my mind. It takes all the effort in the world to say no but I manage it.

Outside, the warm summer air greets me. A mountain laughingthrush is singing. I'm shaking. Shopping isn't usually that difficult. I want to turn back. I want to go back inside to where that liquid treasure is waiting. My heart feels like it is going to explode under all the contradictions. I am not an angel. I need to get out of here.

I run home. The laughingthrushes watch me from the bushes. Their songs seem to ask me if I am alright.

Even after I make it home the day is not over. I live alone in a small two-room arrangement just down the street. It's very cramped, even just for the one of me, but out of my window I can see the Yan mountains silhouetted against the sky and I can hear the sounds of birdsong in the mornings. It's nice enough. It makes me happy.

After making myself a small meal and reading a chapter of this excruciating paperback my friend lent me, I start picking out what I'm going to wear for the evening. You see, it's Tuesday. For this one night a week, in this tiny town in the corner of Hebei, a guy from out west plays the most absurd underground disco trance fresh out of Turkestan and the only people who come—the only people willing to brave such raw and potent sounds—are the trannies: us, our people. It's the one night a week when we get to be who we are. It's the one night a week where the party is ours, when we're in control, where we can dance and the world and the war just don't exist.

I pick out this blue-grey skirt. It's wool but it's light enough for summer and for dancing. To go with that: a blouse, also in blue, but a much more vibrant hue. This one has short sleeves, not something I'd normally wear anywhere else but this is a place where we can be ourselves, a place where we don't have to hide anything.

Well, maybe there are some things I want to hide. As well as a scarf and a pair of shoes, I pick out my favourite stupid hat. It has floppy ears meant to look like those of a sheep. It's silly but I like it and maybe it distracts people from the halo. I can't hide the halo. I want it to just vanish. I don't want to be reminded of how I used to feel like my life had meaning and I don't want other people mistaking me for an angel.

Even as the sun is setting over the mountains, it hasn't really got cold. A few months from now all this will be snow, a few years from now we might all be dead, but tonight it is summer and tonight we will dance.

I get there at around nine. There's a few people I know. We chat about normal stuff: the weather, what our doctors told us, how much we hate our jobs, that sort of stuff. We don't talk about the war though, that's one of the rules. It's a good rule—not talking about the war means not talking about angels. It isn't long and the music begins and then so does the dancing. It's those raw and potent sounds we love. It's the good stuff.

I don't speak Kirgiz or Tajik or Russian or whatever this is, but it's during this song that sounds like a love song, that sounds like the singer is holding up her heart to the world, that I see her. I think the first thing that I noticed was her hair. It's long and black flows like a river down below her shoulders. If she tied it back I think she'd look a lot like that farm girl from the orange juice cartons. I think that's why I noticed her. She's wearing a top and matching long skirt in a deep purple and perched on her head is a cat ear headband. With my sheep ear hat I guess that makes us somewhat alike.

At first the whole thing is unspoken, it's just glances across the dance floor—the sounds of steppe and mountain are loud enough that talking wouldn't be all that productive at the moment—she looks at me and I look at her and like two heavenly bodies acting under each other's gravity we start to enter an orbit. She's got the right kind of hopping motion that the rest of us have adopted but you can tell that this isn't her normal scene: she hasn't quite mastered the step. Still though, she does it with such confidence you could imagine she's creating the next new dance craze for the transgender underground. I can't help but grin as I watch her. I can't help but fall into that orbit. She smiles back.

It doesn't take long before it is the two of us dancing together. There's little cues you can adopt that communicate the togetherness. It feels almost like an animalistic mating ritual saying this one's mine. It's the two of us. The whole world reduced down to that. I lead and she follows, that quickly becomes the ruling dynamic for the first song. It makes sense, for all her bluster I am the one with the experience, I've been here every Tuesday.

In the second song she unseats me. It's a brutal and decisive coup punctuated by her grabbing onto my arm and pulling me into her world. Skin touches skin for the first time and as she pulls me close she looks into my eyes and I see the words written into them: you're mine. She's good, she leads well. I let myself be caught up in it even as I'm planning my own regime change for the next song. She's beautiful and she dances well and she likes me and fuck, what else do you need? The night is already magical.

My putsch doesn't even get a chance though as when the song ends she gives a gesture in the direction of the bar and we're walking off the dance floor. She puts her arm around mine as we walk. It feels good. It all feels so goods. I feel like nothing could go wrong.

Something can go wrong though, and as soon as we step up to the bar and we're far enough from the dancefloor to hear each other, it does go wrong. "So, will you let me get you a glass of orange juice?"

I see it in my mind's eye—I see myself wrapped up in her arms, I see her holding the glass, I see the beautiful orange-yellow of the liquid inside and I see her raise it to my lips. I feel the cold of the glass. I feel her tip it to bring me a sip. I know how it would feel, I know exactly how it would feel and there is no thing in the fucking world that feels as good as that. I remember it, even if it was a lie, I remember how wonderful it felt. Those memories are still beautiful. The taste of orange juice is still sublime, even if it was a lie.

Lies can be beautiful. Lies can hold all the goodness and truth necessary to pull one through life right up until the moment they are revealed. In moments like this I don't hate that I was lied to, I hate that I ever learned it was a lie.

I shake my head. The memory of the pain sits next to the memory of the joy. "I'm not an angel. I'll have a beer though."

She doesn't seem to realise what I'm saying. She laughs. It isn't a pretty laugh despite how pretty her face is as she delivers it. "I can see your halo, silly. I know what angels are, I work with them in the— Down south." She doesn't mention the war, at least someone told her that rule.

"You've got it wrong." I try to show through my tone of voice that pushing here would upset me. She seems to notice this time. "A beer though? Or maybe you could let me buy you a beer—southern girl like you, flown far away from home."

She liked that. She blushed maybe? She's cute with her long dark hair and rosy cheeks. Reminds me of that girl from the TV advert, from the juice cartons. "Alright then. Some northern hospitality." Different accent to the actor though, both southern, but this girl's voice drips with Guizhou. That's not something you can hide, a bit like a halo.

We're not drunk. We've both had a couple of drinks but we did more dancing than we did drinking. She's really interesting. Doesn't talk much about her job but I get that—it's the war and it's angels. As we walk down to the lake I point out the owl calls that I recognise. She's into that. She tells me about the different birds they get down south.

When we get to the shore we spend some time skipping stones on the mirror surface of the water. The ripples send shockwaves that turn the perfect disk of the moon to wobbling white worms. We laugh and we hold hands and we look up at the stars. She doesn't see much of the stars down south, all the light pollution I guess.

"You ever go swimming in the lake?" she asks me.

I point to a place on the other side where a waterfall is perched on the steep bank. "We used to, over there at the waterfall when we were little. Water was probably a lot cleaner back then, back when everything was forever and we hadn't learned to worry yet."

"We should go there later." She talks like the world is still young. "Even if not to swim, I'd see a waterfall."

The two of us sit on the pebble beach. She leans back against me, nestles her head against my chest. I want to wrap my wings around her: she's in the perfect place for it. Even though they're long since gone, I can still feel them reaching out to envelop her. I wish they hadn't had to take them from me. I know I'm not meant to wish these things but...

And she'd know all of this, wouldn't she? She works with angels in the war. She put herself in this position because she knows that this is where you sit for an angel to wrap her wings around you. She wants me to think of this. I put an arm around her. I can do that at least.

She turns her head and looks into my eyes. Her face is lit by my halo's soft glow—that cat ear headband, those rosy cheeks. She smiles like the farm girl on the carton, like the actor in the advert. I can smell the Sichuan summer, the peaches and the heat.

I smile back. I imagine myself radiant. I imagine my kindly countenance and holy glow. I can see it in her eyes. I can see that she sees me as an angel.

She basks there for a moment before raising a hand to my face and pulling me closer. We kiss. I don't really like kissing, it's my least favourite part, but it's making her happy. After a little eternity of tongues and lips and faces on faces we break apart and then again and then apart once more. It's the elliptical orbit of a comet made into flesh as human intimacy—coming together and then apart all while under a gravity that will always pull you back.

Her hand runs down my back. There haven't been many words since the kissing started. Her touch eventually reaches that monstrous place where my wings had been cut off. It happens every time, I can't pretend they didn't exist. Most girls have the good sense not to say anything. The cat eared girl isn't like most girls. "What did they do to you?" She asks. Her voice is heavy with compassion and sorrow.

I shake my head and respond, "I was lied to."

"You are an angel."

We're moving apart again. The pendulum swing of gravity just widens the gap. Soon we are both standing. "I told you already that I'm not."

"You are! I know! I work with angels in the war, it's my job." She swings closer "You could come with me, you could fly south. It will be beautiful and you will be loved and there will be meaning to your life again."

I push her away. It's a light push but it very deliberate, very physical. "Please stop."

"Don't do this to yourself. Don't deny who you are." She's pleading now. She's seen people like me before, I can hear it in her voice. "You are an angel. You know you are."

"I'm not an angel! I wish I was. I wish I was more than anything I could ever wish for but I'm not. It's all lies and it always was—I am not holy, I am not made of light, I was never pure—it means nothing." I point to my halo as I shout the last two words. But of course it does mean something. It means I was lied to, I was wronged and I believed it. It means all the shame that is bundled up in all those things. It means that I know how beautiful the light is and it means that I know I will never see it again.

I dreamed last night I was an angel. I was pure and I was holy and I spread my wings and flew south in the great migration. I was beautiful and I was loved and my life had meaning again. The southern girl with the cat ear headband sat by me and rested her head on my chest. I put my arms and wings around her and wrapped her in a blanket of feathers.

Unholy, horrible and blasphemous thoughts. I hate having dreams like those, I hate that my own brain seems to want to remind me of what I am not. I hate the pain that I know must follow.

If I am not hurt I will not learn, that's what they said as they tore off my wings, that's what they told me when they pulled the lies out of my head. They taught me what I have to do next. I could try and claim that it's not my fault—I could blame the TVs and their advertising, the orange juice companies, the southern girl with the cat ear headband—but they're my thoughts. I am the one that has to take responsibility for them.

I pull myself out of bed and slouch into the kitchen area. For a few seconds I just stare at the gas burner. I need those thoughts to go away. I never want to think of angels again. I light the flame and roll up my sleeve.

She looks so normal I might not even have noticed her, but it is definitely her. I pull down my sleeve a bit—not that it hides the bandage, not that she'd know why it was there anyway. She looks almost iridescent in her normality. The woman of last night, the creature of dreams and desires and dance who had sat with me by the lake, it's all gone. All that's left is a miserable mundaneness that feels even more intimate than a kiss. I'm seeing her without her cat-ear headband. I'm seeing her in her everyday clothes. Not a dream, not a fantasy, just another girl in the post office.

I wonder if that is how I look to her. I wonder if she sees me as similarly mundane, as less than what I should be. I think though she maybe saw me like that already. I think that when I refused to let her buy me orange juice that... It doesn't matter. I'm not an angel.

She hands me the parcel and recognition flashes across her eyes. They're looking slightly above my face—I hate it when people see the halo.

I look down at the parcel. It's heading to Fengjie County. I tell her the price. It's transactional, it's boring. I ask her a couple of questions and then sign off on the slip of paper attached to the parcel. I do it all as if she were any other southern girl sending a parcel.

As she hands me the money I realise that this is going to be it. It's going to be the end and maybe the last time I ever see her. I don't want the last thing I say to be something I said as a worker. I don't want her to leave my world without me saying something meaningful. As I look at that long dark hair and those rosy cheeks I realise that I don't want her to leave my world at all.

"I'm sorry about last night." I hurriedly say.

She sounds sad when she responds, sad and beautiful and like she holds all the sorrow of the moon. "No, don't. I'm sorry." There's a pause, a total eclipse, a moment where the only things that exist in the universe are me and her. "Just look after yourself, okay?"

"Okay." I say numbly. I watch her walk away. I am not an angel, I know I am not. She walks out of the post office. She walks out of my life.

In the days after I can't shake the thought of her. I can't stop thinking of how normal she had looked. On the dance floor she had burned like a crackling, jumping woodfire, at the lake she had sparkled like a reflection of the stars, but in the post office she had been just like me.

It feels like my life should have changed, but it hasn't. Northing interesting happened in those following days, it was all the same tedium that I'm used to. I don't hate my life, or at least I try not to.

The thought is nestled in the back of my head though. It constantly insists on it's own presence, lurking like a spider in the corner of a room. I could have changed my life, I could have escaped the mundane and run away with her. It had all been within my grasp. All I had needed to do was admit the lie. All I had needed to do was pretend that I am an angel.

But I'm not. A lie is a lie even when it is a beautiful one.

It is Tuesday again. I'll pick up groceries on the way home and then maybe tonight I'll bump into someone else at the dancehall. Maybe my life doesn't have to be like this—that's what it sounds like the laughingthrushes are telling me from the bushes as I reach the shop. I smile at them before I push the door open.

I'm not an angel. I know I am not. I am not holy. I am not made of light. I was tricked. They made me think I was an angel but they were lying. I'm just another girl, just another girl buying her groceries. I am not an angel.

I keep telling myself that, insisting upon it, as I load my basket. I'm not an angel.

I hand the old man my basket: two scoops of buckwheat, three peaches, a jar of fermented vegetables, and a carton of juice with a picture of a long haired, rosy cheeked, southern girl holding an orange up to the light.

I just wanted to taste it again. I didn't do it because I'm an angel. I just... It doesn't mean anything. I promise it doesn't mean anything.

I'm not an angel.