Chapter 1 — The Password Without Me

On the day we moved into our new home, I found myself unable to connect to the Wi-Fi. When I asked my mother, she did not even turn back, merely replying:

"Eight digits. Your sister's birthday."

I froze for a moment. The password for our previous home had been my younger brother's birthday. I was the middle child, squeezed squarely between the others, and never once had anyone considered using my birthday for anything at all. The moment I finished typing in the numbers, I told myself to let it go. It was nothing more than a sequence of digits.

That mindset held until the autumn of my senior year of high school, when two opportunities arrived simultaneously: an early admission slot to a prestigious domestic university, and a government-funded scholarship to study abroad in Norway. I wanted to stay in the country. Perhaps, I thought, if the distance between us remained close enough, they might finally look my way and see me.

The confirmation link was set to expire at midnight. As I clicked on it, the progress bar had barely reached the halfway mark when the signal icon in the top right corner of my screen suddenly vanished. The household Wi-Fi password had been changed again, yet no one had bothered to inform me.

Panicking, I quickly switched to my mobile hotspot to finalize the verification, but a pop-up window immediately halted me: *Please perform this operation within a Wi-Fi environment.*

Out in the living room, my sister’s tablet was streaming a movie, my brother’s gaming controller was vibrating hard enough to make the coffee table hum, and my parents were on a video call, laughing boisterously. Everyone else’s internet connection was working seamlessly. Only my screen displayed the dreary message: *Unable to connect.*

I parted my lips, then slowly closed them.

By the time I sprinted to the neighborhood library and connected to the public Wi-Fi, the webpage already bore a stark notice: *The domestic confirmation portal is now closed.*

Staring blankly at those crimson letters, I suddenly let out a low laugh. Fine then. Norway it would be. A place I had never intended to go was ultimately the only destination left willing to take me in. As for this home I had fought so desperately to remain within, not even a single slot in its Wi-Fi password had ever been reserved for me. If the signals beneath this roof had never truly acknowledged my presence, then I would simply travel much farther away—far enough that their router would never be able to find me again.

...

"Du Do, has that early admission business of yours finally been sorted out?"

My mother sat across the dining table, using her chopsticks to transfer a piece of braised pork rib into my brother's bowl, asking the question without turning her head.

Five days had already passed. Five days ago, I had sat in the library, staring at the red words *portal closed* for a full hour. It had taken her five days just to remember to ask.

"It wasn't done. The deadline passed."

"Huh?" My mother’s chopsticks paused mid-air. "Then why didn't you finish it earlier? Why must you always drag things out until the very last day?"

I offered no explanation. Explaining was entirely useless.

"Well, what now? How do you plan to handle this?"

"I'll think about it."

"You need to hurry up. The other students are already—"

Before she could finish, my younger brother, Le Tri Chau, slammed his chopsticks down onto the tabletop.

"Mom! Did you actually hear what I told you about that physical trainer? Registration for next week's assessment closes today!"

My mother instantly snapped her head around:

"Yes, yes, yes. I'll take care of it for you right after dinner."

My matters had occupied less than thirty seconds of discussion at this dining table. My father sat at the head of the table, his gaze never once lifting from the stock market tickers on his phone. I glanced at him, half-believing he might ask something. Sure enough, he finally opened his mouth:

"Du Do, bring the teapot over here to your father."

The teapot. His daughter’s university career had just evaporated, yet all he cared about was his tea.

"Yes."

I stood up, poured the tea, and placed the cup beside his hand. He took a sip without even raising his eyelids:

"Your mother is right. Make your decision quickly and stop dragging your feet."

That was the sum total of his involvement. A single instruction: *stop dragging your feet.* He didn't ask why it hadn't been completed. He didn't ask what had happened. He didn't ask if I was upset.

My older sister, Le Tri Y, walked out of her room to pour a glass of water and caught the tail end of the conversation:

"Du Do, did you miss out on the early admission slot? What are you going to do now?"

"There's still another option."

"What is it?"

"I haven't decided yet."

She gave a nod, pressed for no further details, finished her water, and walked back to her bedroom. A family of four, three and a half questions asked, and the gathering was over.

While washing the dishes that evening, my mother walked into the kitchen for a glass of water.

"Du Do, keep an eye on your own affairs from now on, alright? I've been quite busy lately with your brother's upcoming physical fitness test."

"Understood."

I placed the final bowl onto the drying rack. *Keep an eye on yourself.* Ever since I was a child, everything had always been a matter of "keeping an eye on myself." I had filled out my own middle school enrollment preferences entirely alone. I had gone to the school by myself to collect my high school entrance exam scores. On the parental signature lines of my high school admission forms, there were two occasions where I had simply forged my mother's handwriting, because on both days I sought her signature, she had been entirely consumed by matters concerning my brother.

Once the dishes were done and I had retreated to my room, I habitually opened my social media feed.

My mother had just uploaded a new post containing nine photographs. The first image was a snapshot of my brother's mock exam score sheet, showing an improvement of thirty ranks, circled proudly in red ink. The second showed him leaping over a hurdle during training, the sunlight catching the sharp line of his profile, making him look utterly vibrant. From the third to the seventh image, the pictures captured his daily routines: training sessions, meals, and a cheerful photograph with his coach. The eighth was a portrait of my sister taken the previous week in her graduation gown. The final photograph showed the entire family attending one of my brother's scrimmage matches—my father had his arm slung around my brother's shoulders, while my mother and sister stood on either side, beaming brightly.

Four people, nine photographs. Not a single trace of me.

I scrolled down through my mother's timeline. Over the past month, she had published six posts—my brother claimed four, and my sister two. Scrolling further back across three months, half a year, an entire full year, my name had surfaced precisely once. It had been a post for the "New Year's Eve dinner" from the previous Spring Festival, accompanied by a picture of the family dining table. Yet in that photograph, only the back of my head was visible because at the moment the shutter clicked, I was still carrying dishes out from the kitchen.

I locked my phone screen and placed it face down on the desk, staring up at the ceiling for a long, silent while.

Right then, the family group chat chimed. My mother sent a message:

"Tri Chau has his physical fitness assessment tomorrow morning. Everyone please keep it down in the morning and try not to disturb his rest."

My sister replied with a single "OK." My brother dropped a sticker that read, *You've got this, self!* My father answered: "Good luck with the test."

No one mentioned me. No one said: "Let's all sit down together and discuss Du Do's university situation."

I exited the chat window and opened my laptop. On the display was the admissions website of a foreign country I had never once imagined I would travel to. The text was entirely in English; no one was going to help me translate it, no one was going to help me fill out the application, and no one was going to ask if I required assistance.

That was fine. It had always been just me, anyway. One more time would make no difference at all.

The list of requirements for the government-funded study abroad program was extensive. Academic transcripts, language proficiency scores, and letters of recommendation totaled more than ten distinct items, each carrying its own strict deadline. I compiled everything into a checklist and taped it right above my study desk, crossing off each requirement the moment it was completed. Every single task was handled by my own two feet.

On the day I had to apply for my passport, I took a half-day off from school, rode the public bus for forty minutes entirely by myself to the exit-entry administration bureau, and stood in line for three full hours. My homeroom teacher had kindly drafted the letters of recommendation. I printed three copies and traveled independently to the notary public office to secure the official stamps.

The single task requiring cooperation from my family was the mandatory medical examination. The scholarship program designated a specific tertiary-level hospital, and international student health checks were only conducted during morning office hours. Appointments had to be booked precisely one week in advance, and missing the slot meant cancellation.

I secured an appointment for Thursday morning at nine o'clock. On Wednesday night, I informed my mother:

"Tomorrow morning, I need to go to the city's central hospital for my medical examination, which is required for studying abroad. My appointment is at nine. I cannot afford to be late."

My mother was busy hemming a pair of athletic pants for my brother. She gave an indifferent murmur:

"Got it."

On Thursday morning, I woke up at seven to wash up and prepare for departure. Out in the living room, my mother was already rummaging through my brother's training bag, stuffing in a towel and a water bottle.

"Tri Chau! Hurry up! You have your physical assessment today, and the coach said you must reach the training base before seven-thirty!"

My brother was a sports art major who practiced three afternoons a week, without exception. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and walked out of his room, my mother caught sight of me standing by the doorway with my bag, pausing in surprise.

"Du Do, why don't you drop your brother off at the training base on your way? I need to head over to your sister's university today to drop off some thesis defense documents."

"Mom, I need to be at the hospital for my health check at nine o'clock today."

"What time is your appointment? Nine? The training base is in the southern part of the city. You can just drop him off and catch a taxi from there; you'll make it."

The training base lay in the south, while the hospital sat in the north. Traversing the entire city between them meant that even if I left the moment he was dropped off, a taxi ride combined with heavy morning traffic would easily require at least forty minutes.

"I won't make it in time, Mom."

"Why ever not? Tell the driver to take the ring road; it's very fast."

My brother chimed in from the side, rolling his eyes:

"Just give me a ride, sis. It's barely a ten-minute detour."

Ten minutes was the time required to reach the training base—not the time it would take for me to race from the southern edge of the metropolis back up to the northern hospital. But no one cared about that distinction.

"Mom, if I miss this slot, the appointment is canceled, and rescheduling takes two weeks. The application deadline is at the end of the month—"

"Then hurry up and leave! Why must you always dawdle?"

She had already turned her back to me, rummaging through the wardrobe for my sister's documents. I stood by the door and checked the time. Seven-ten. If I walked out the door right this second and caught the subway, I could reach the hospital by eight-fifty. Just barely in time. If I first escorted my brother down south, I wouldn't be able to leave that area before eight, making a nine o'clock arrival up north an absolute impossibility.

"Mom, I truly won't make it."

"Fine, fine!" She finally lost her patience, giving an impatient wave of her hand. "Let your brother hail a cab himself."

Her tone dripped with the unmistakable reproach of someone dealing with a nuisance who refused to help with the simplest of favors. My brother sneered, rolling his eyes further:

"Hmph, can't even help with a tiny little thing. I really don't get you, sister."

A tiny little thing. His physical assessment was guarded by the entire family, with my mother waking up before dawn to prepare his provisions. Meanwhile, my overseas medical check was dismissed as a "tiny little thing," proof that I was merely "dawdling."

I said nothing more, turning on my heel and walking out the door.

The subway carriage was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. With one hand I gripped the overhead handrail, while the other clenched the appointment slip so tightly that my palm was slick with nervous sweat.

At eight-fifty-three, I burst through the hospital lobby doors. The digital queue monitor flashed: *Number 009, missed turn.* The system was currently calling: *Number 010.*

I had missed it. By a mere three minutes.

If she hadn't obstructed me. If she hadn't uttered the words *drop your brother off.* If I hadn't been forced to stand by the door wasting five minutes explaining what *not enough time* meant. Those three saved minutes would have brought me here safely.

I walked up to the service desk and asked if an exception could be made to squeeze me in. The nurse shook her head:

"Study abroad health checks follow a strict schedule, and today's slots are completely full. The earliest available opening is two weeks from now."

Two weeks from now meant the end of the month. The absolute deadline for the application dossier. Even if the examination were completed on that day, results wouldn't be issued immediately; they required at least three working days. Should any minor mishap occur two weeks later, the entire application would collapse entirely.

I walked out of the hospital gates and stood upon the stone steps for a long moment. Then, I sent a message to my mother:

"The slot was missed. I couldn't get the check done."

Twenty minutes later, her reply arrived:

"Then just reschedule another one. It's hardly a major crisis."

Hardly a major crisis.

My phone chimed yet again. The family group chat. My brother had uploaded a video capturing his slow-motion hurdle leap at the training ground, accompanied by the text:

"Broke my personal record again today!"

My mother immediately answered with a string of clapping emojis. My sister chimed in: *So amazing, little brother!*

I sat alone on the stone bench beside the flowerbeds outside the hospital entrance, where the midday sun beat down so fiercely that my scalp burned under the harsh glare.