Catch
By Lin Xin Er
Kris Chau, Deep Star, 2024. Watercolor and ink on Canson paper, 6.75 x 11 inches.
Image description: Across a horizontal composition lies an angel-shaped figure with a crescent moon and two eight-point stars at its head, all in pale yellow and blue washes against an inky black background.
Dear Ziying,
Remember our English teacher Mr Ng? I saw his Instagram yesterday. He just got married—can you believe it? At Four Seasons Hotel. He said he would invite 4E3 to his wedding, but he forgot. Makes sense though. We graduated about ten years ago.
His wedding photos where he was holding his wife so tightly made me remember that one exercise he made us do during health ed. He made us pretend we were parents and our teenage daughter got pregnant or something. Then he made us stand and pick a side; if you support her decision to abort the baby, you stand at the front of the class. If not, you stand at the back.
Almost all of us stood at the back. Then there was that one girl, I can’t remember her name. She was the only one of us who stood at the front of the class. Some of the girls gasped so loudly. I was so offended to see her there too, oh my god. I think I even said something like “She’s going to kill a baby!”? I’m cringing just thinking about how stupid I was.
Mr Ng asked why she chose to support abortion, then she said it’s because she should support her daughter’s decisions. Someone laughed (maybe it was me). How would a teen know what’s best for her? Dumb thing for me to say, because we were all teens at that point. But that girl was so wise, don’t you think? I didn’t realise how hypocritical I sounded, saying that a baby has the right to live. My fake daughter should have the choice to live too. I’d want my parent to support me if I got knocked up.
(Relax, I’m not pregnant. Just know you’d be the first to know.)
I know you’re thinking, what’s this bitch going on about now? Honestly, I don’t know. Yes, we talk on Telegram every day, but don’t you think it’d be hella awkward if I messaged you “Hey, bitch, I miss you being around”? It’s just… Different going from seeing you every day in secondary to uni to being like 10,000 km away. Thankfully, by the time this letter reaches you in London, I’ll probably forget whatever I wrote here. I’m sending this via surface mail through SingPost. Yes, that’s like six weeks at least, but you’re the one who told me snail mail is romantic. I can’t give you the boyfriend you’ve been yearning for but here’s the roman- to your -tic, babe. Maybe you’ll be less homesick?
Anyway, writing this by hand feels a lot more… Elaborate. I don’t know what possessed me to use a pen and paper exactly—like please, the last time I wrote this much was during our Business Management finals. Maybe I’m crazy but there’s like this feeling on my chest I can’t get rid of. When I type, my fingers go into hyper speed like I’m trying to word vomit. I thought if I wrote this all out, I can… Think slower, you get? It’s been eight years since I genuinely wrote on paper, like an essay in an exam. Never again.
I’m digressing. See? I would have just typed away if this was an email or something. Let me restart.
*
I told you about Anabel. The cousin who’s a few years younger and got into NTU four years ago? Scholar and all. She’s the only one who impressed my aunts and uncles. When their STEM ah boy gets a 3.5, it’s good. My 3.8 GPA is “basically fail”. Anabel’s 4.8 shut them up real good though. Why do they talk so much about a grading system they don’t understand anyway? These people literally don’t even have a degree but they really like to say shit.
So, some of my juniors asked me to help them with their graduation photoshoot last week. I took photos of them at the Hive. It was so hot I could see heat waves rising from the gravel, so just imagine my juniors roasting in their thick-ass graduation robes. My Canon was slipping out of my fingers each time I lifted the thing. Everything was so sweaty and gross, but they paid me by the hour (friendship price is $15/ hour, hit me up).
Anabel passed by us at the RSIS building. She wore this old and yellow long-sleeved blouse and dark jeans in 36-degree weather. Head down, hair down, walking across the near-empty carpark with a bulging tote bag on her left shoulder. She looked so skinny. She saw me waving and came over to talk.
I think I told you about her sister—the twin who got pregnant and ran away from home. The runaway’s Anastacia. My family was very touchy over the twins after Anastacia went MIA, so I didn’t tell you her name.
But… Anabel called me “Anastacia”. It happens though? Like in primary school when a kid accidentally calls their teacher “mummy”? When we talked, we had that lukewarm attitude between cousins. We complained about the hot weather and she started describing how hard it was to catch butterflies in Yunnan Garden. I thought I was hearing things. Since when did NTU have a lepidopterology major? (Yes, I Googled.) Maybe her final year project was about butterflies.
Then when we stopped talking and that air of awkwardness got thick, she said goodbye. She called me Anastacia. Again. She was smiling, face as pale as the pau I ate this morning. Reminded me of that old Japanese horror film we watched. I know I’m being mean.
They were sixteen when Anastacia ran away. Her mother called our grandmother to ask if she contacted anyone, so my very busybody big auntie gathered everyone at my grandmother’s house. My presence was “requested” on the WhatsApp group chat.
God, thinking about that day still gives me goosebumps.
Just imagine: more than 20 people squashed in the living room of a 3-room HDB flat in Tampines. My grandmother gets cold easily, so the windows are always only open by a sliver. I was last to arrive (in town with the boys). Shoes scattered all over the welcome mat nearly tripped me, and the metal door was wide open.
I felt the heat from the door. They were already yelling. My mother’s brother, the twins’ father, was in the middle of it all, swinging his arms around, eyes bloodshot. He was in front of the noisy TV no one was watching, screaming for everyone not to care about his “useless daughter” who “only know how to run away”. His wife was sobbing in a corner, face hidden behind her hands, behind the uneven circle of my family members. My grandmother was smacking the end of her cane on the marble floor. The people from the 11th floor came to complain. But they saw everyone and walked back down the stairs.
Away from everyone else, Anabel just stood in the kitchen door, staring off into space. Okay, so Anastacia failed PSLE and went into NT, right? But Anastacia is her sister. Their father tried to lie in the beginning and said she scraped a pass and went into NA. I really don’t get him. Not everyone graduates secondary school anyway.
You know what’s the worst thing, Ziying? I confronted Anabel in the kitchen. I asked her, you hear your father saying all this about your sister? No one will help Anastacia if she asks for help now.
Anabel had a dead, wooden look in her eyes, like she wasn’t fully there. She told me, it’s “a catch-22”. We read Catch-22 in secondary two, you remember? I gave her my old copy after she said she was considering doing Lit at O Levels. She never got around to it though. She chose Biology. Why do I know? Because her father told everyone about it during that Mother’s Day celebration one year.
Mr Ng once said it’s his favourite book of all time. He also said he wanted to be a prosecutor because of it, but he ended up as a teacher. The book’s supposed to be some commentary about free will being an illusion, right? If I could, I would have chosen Twilight or something more fun to read.
I didn’t get what Anabel meant though. What does the government and red tape have anything to do with her fighting for her sister? It bothered me that she looked so unbothered. I nearly grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
Do you think if I yelled at her or did something more, things would be different?
Ziying… I was the first one to find her note. On the second day of her funeral. Her parents said that a three-day funeral is enough, if not the gods of the underworld will think she’s unfilial and punish her more.
The same 20-something people who came for that “family meeting” about Anastacia running away swarmed my mother’s brother. He sat alone, hunched over, at the table meant for bai jin donations. The family tried to give him words of consolation or whatever. I didn’t go over, of course.
Seeing that gave me déjà vu. Except we’re not in my grandmother’s tiny flat but at a void deck. And instead of him yelling, everyone was yammering at him. I think he appreciated it. Silence is scary.
His wife was folding lotuses out of the yellow paper offerings at another table when I came after my last day of work (yes, my notice is fully served). She saw me and, maybe she thought I looked really tired, gave me her keys and told me to go upstairs to their house to take a shower or nap on the couch.
To be honest, I didn’t want to. Yes, I’m atheist, but what if Anabel really returned home? Her parents decided on a closed casket service. The make-up team told everyone they restored her to her most “beautiful self”. But knowing that she jumped…
Some stupid, stupid part of me wondered what she might look like if she did come home. But her mother was waiting for me to answer so I took the keys, went to the 10th floor, and unlocked their house door.
No one had been home for a few days. Her parents slept at the void deck on lounging chairs they dragged out of their storeroom—no one said anything, but I seriously believe they were scared they might see her. The air smelled dead.
I turned on all the lights and opened all the windows. The Taoist master himself said it—the home should be as welcoming to the living as the dead.
I didn’t take a shower or nap on the couch. I just stood in the middle of the empty flat, hearing occasional bumps from the upstairs neighbours. I wondered if Anabel was standing where I stood, taking in the home she’d lived in for 22 years. For six of those years, she slept alone.
Something made me go to her room. I can’t explain why. The metal doorknob was cold, but I twisted it and went in. I’ve never been in their room. Even during Chinese New Year, I just sat in their living room to eat their cookies and chips. But they kept the second bedframe, even though there was no mattress.
Anabel’s white bedsheets were decorated with yellow butterflies. The shelves on the walls were just filled with books. There was a stack of magazines on her desk. She didn’t have a single stuffed toy.
Maybe you think I’m a nosy bitch. But somehow, I turned back around and saw Catch-22. My old copy, wedged between 1984 and another book I can’t remember, on the small shelf right next to the door. My hand had pulled it out before I realised what I was doing. When I tried to put it back, a small note fell out from between the pages.
I want to say I remember what she wrote, but my hands were shaking so hard. I read it so many times, but I only remember the two lines near the end: “Agnus jie, will you still make that paper lantern for me? I want a butterfly this time.”
I didn’t tell her to eat more or sleep more. Why didn’t I ask if she’s okay? Why did I let her walk away that day? How could I hold my stupid Canon camera in my sweaty hands like it was more important than her? If I said something, would things be different? Would she even have listened to me?
I brought the book down and gave the note to her mother. She let out the most heart-wrenching sound I never want to hear again. When everyone swarmed in, I sat far, far behind them. I kept the book—it’s mine anyway.
I watched her casket go up in flames. We watched her turn into ash. The Taoist master yelled at Anabel’s parents and our grandmother yesterday morning when they insisted on going into the cremation hall.
“It is taboo for the white-haired to send off the dark-haired!”
So? What if it is taboo? Isn’t not seeing Anabel one last time more painful?
Now, whenever I shut my eyes to go to bed, I see her in that frilly yellow blouse. Just standing there, her back towards me as she looks onwards at an endless blue sky. She asked to be cremated in that top, together with a really gaudy gold butterfly pin in her hair.
Anabel had everything—a scholarship, a clear path to becoming an academic, and her parents’ support and pride! Wasn’t she everything every parent wants their children to become? Fuck, she’s someone I still want to be like.
*
Kris Chau, Pesce Verde, 2024. Watercolor and ink on Canson paper, 6.75 x 11 inches. Inspired by folk toys and tinned fish.
Image description: Across a horizontal composition, against a pale paper ground, a cutout of a green fish swims in black ink above a squat, green and white cylindar with a bright red peg in its center.
See if you can find the Polaroid of the lantern I made that I threw into the envelope. Take a look. Do you think I can sell paper lanterns for a living? It doesn’t have to be Mid-Autumn Festival to sell, right? I can even add lights and hop on TikTok or something to market myself. Do kids like things like this nowadays?
Anastacia came to the funeral with her small family. I have a nephew. I overheard one of my aunts asking him how old he is—he said he’s eight. There was a fleeting moment I thought, when he sat down at my table to eat the candy and peanuts laid out for funeral guests, that he looked just like Anabel. I was designing something on my iPad. It felt like I was 10 again, whenever the family gathered, and our parents threw us together so they can drink beer and play mahjong.
Anastacia loved running around, kicking cushions and throwing coasters with the boys. Anabel read instead, but sometimes she finished her book too quickly. She liked to observe me when I doodled and coloured. Since my mother told me I should take care of my younger cousins, I’d ask Anabel what animal she’d like me to draw. Eyes wide, she asked me if I could draw her a rabbit. Without fail, she would ask for a rabbit.
My nephew’s expression looked just like Anabel’s. Even funeral music didn’t disturb him. He just sat there and watched as the cymbals clashed while the suo na blasted its ear-splitting ring. They didn’t stay long. My mother’s brother nearly had a stroke when he saw the boy.
Do you want to know what’s the funniest thing? Just an hour ago, my mum and I sat down in the living room watching TV after dinner. We were watching some horrible Chinese soap opera with a lot of screaming; though I must say, the actor screaming that he lost “everything” (his company) looked kind of like Anabel’s father.
Mum asked me if I was sad out of nowhere. I stared at her for like a minute, and she had this smile on her face. Like Anabel’s father and the funeral was all a joke. We’ve never hidden our dislike for her brother, but I didn’t recognise Mum in that split moment. I told her no.
Ziying, have you ever thought about what we’d be like in 20 years’ time? It’s stupid to ask, I know. I can’t help but think of this though, even though I don’t even know what my next step is.
My parents keep telling me that it’s all okay, you don’t need to work, we don’t have to retire yet… But it’s not that. I thought adults are supposed to be… Adults. I don’t feel like one. Do you?
Maybe I am running away. Everyone sees me as that bright and shiny marketing exec in an MNC earning $5K a month—“You got a bright future ahead!” and whatever. Everyone understood when I gave the excuse that the job was too stressful. But it really wasn’t. Really.
I went to Botanic Gardens last night, after the cremation. Brought along a picnic mat and a piece of cake I had been saving for... What, I don’t remember. Did you know, Ziying? When the lights are off, the stars can be really bright. During my primary five school camping trip, one of the facilitators made us look at the bright assembly hall before staring up at the night sky. Made us count—I counted one star. Most counted two, some three.
Then they made us close our eyes for 22 seconds. Why 22? One of my classmates asked, and one of the male facilitators said it’s his favourite number. I think it’s bullshit, but I remember another female facilitator giggling. Thinking back, they were probably flirting. Still, they taught me about light pollution, so that wasn’t a completely wasted trip. They counted down and when I opened my eyes, I could count 10 stars.
Some lights at Botanic Gardens were on, but barely. People passed by. I lay on the uneven floor on a bare patch next to the Symphony Stage, bits of hard soil poking my back through my mat. Many bugs, of course. Whenever the wind tickled my arms, the smell of grass would fill my nose. I looked up and counted 10 stars again—though, one of them blinked and disappeared, so maybe it was actually a helicopter.
I wished Anabel a happy birthday and sang her the song. She told me on her 10th birthday party that we should make wishes on stars instead of blowing out candles. She told me a year later that stars are light-years away from earth, so it’s easier to make wishes and not feel sad when they don’t come true. I quote: “It’s impossible to catch one anyway.”
It’s not actually her birthday, but it was the end of her funeral. The last day her body existed in the same plane of existence as us. I’ll take it that it’s the day she moves on and will be reborn. No more pain or suffering. No need to be brave anymore. I finished the cake before going home.
Do you know if strawberry shortcake recipes include salt?
*
Guess what. I finished all the applications. I applied to four schools. That’s a few hundred dollars gone, but I have enough savings for now. Two in London, one in Sydney and the last in Hong Kong. I have no confidence that I’ll get into any programme, but even if it’s just for a year or two, I want to be somewhere else and not here. I’m not noble. I’m not studying for a better job or for the spirit of learning. Someone has to know the truth, no matter what my parents say or what my family thinks.
I can’t wait to see you again. When (if) you finish this letter, why not invite me to visit you? We can count the stars in the London sky together. Maybe there aren’t as much lights there as in Singapore.
So much love,
Agnus
Kris Chau, Eight of Hearts, 2025. Acrylic on panel, 24 x 24 inches.
Image description: Within a square composition, a tiny, stylized white horse with a pale blue tail prances upon a giant playing card—the eight of heats—on a green baize surface, against a rust-colored wall.
Lin Xin Er is a Singapore-based writer, educator, and aspiring translator whose work dwells on hope, dread, and the quiet acts of revolt that shape ordinary lives. A graduate of Nanyang Technological University's MA in Creative Writing, her short story collection seeks clarity amid the absurd through introspective, character-driven narratives. She's currently working on Streetlights, Lanterns, a novel exploring myth, identity, and belonging in an absurd world. Catch her at xiner.carrd.co.
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Kris Chau was born and raised in Honolulu, Hawaii. She currently lives in Echo Park in Los Angeles, where she works out of a very hot or very cold garage. She is part of the musical project MONDE UFO along with Ray Monde (https://www.mondeufo.org). Through her work she strives to show how we are all interconnected, earthbound, and heaven-sent. She hopes to live to see the day where our basic needs are met so we can all explore and share our poetry. Chau regularly updates her online store (https://krischau.bigcartel.com) and all proceeds go to the continuation of her practice and learning process. For more images and up-to-date information, please visit: https://www.krischau.com and https://www.instagram.com/chaufacetime
‘I want to be somewhere else and not here. I’m not noble. I’m not studying for a better job or for the spirit of learning. Someone has to know the truth.’––a short story by Lin Xin Er.