"Tong hua li dou shi pian ren de!" Fairy tales are all lies, I screamed at the top of my lungs. This was my favorite part — "wo bu ke neng shi ni de wang zi!" I cannot possibly be your prince.

I heard the shouts and cries. People stomping their feet. Applause. Uncle Ming yelled something at me, and others laughed. I lowered my head, closed my fist, and raised it above my head. I made a clumsy pirouette. — "Believe that we can be like in the fairy tale! Happiness and joy are the ending!" I finished the song. The crowd inside the bar went wild. It was the Chinese classic "Fairy Tales" by Michael Wong. I absolutely loved it.

I took the hand of Auntie Jane, who was accompanying me during my performance, and kissed it.

"You're the best, Auntie," I said, and she just smiled. That was her thing. Smiling and dancing. Not a word spoken. Ever.

People were still clapping when I got off the podium. Singa-Song Wong, a middle-aged Chinese man who had introduced me to this place, grabbed me by the neck and instructed me on one or two words that I still kept mispronouncing. My linguistic mentor and best friend, despite the forty-year age gap between us.

"Raj, I can't believe you did it again!" I heard the shout and turned around. It was Priya, the wife of Raj. He was sitting at the bar with some young Indian girl on his lap. I saw some commotion, the young girl jumping across the bar with a beer bottle following her. People were laughing, and it felt as if I was the only one who took the whole thing seriously. I always did. Always the one that had to stop the fight. The peacekeeper. The one that had to be in the middle of everything. Mediating, pleading, asking, arbitrating, refereeing. People fighting over who's next to sing. Glasses flying above my head. Someone setting the window curtains on fire. Auntie Jane, without a care in the world, dancing as if nothing's happening.

Me begging Priya to let go of Raj's neck. Singa-Song Wong's laugh playing on repeat inside my head. Fever dream. All happening to the sounds of "Wo Xiang You Ge Jia" (I want to have a home).

“The crowd is bustling, but I'm still alone.

The world is vast, yet I have nowhere to go.

Every night, I ask myself,

Where is the place that I can call home?”

Right on cue, Auntie Jane grabbed me by the hand and pulled me onto the stage. It was her telling me something I didn't understand until that night. The night I heard the glass break somewhere and people shouting. The night I smelled smoke in the distance and saw someone flying across the bar. The night I shut my mouth and started to dance.