Orphan

You asked me how I define the world.

I said the world feels like a lullaby wrapped in colored patches-but not the kind of lullaby you heard as a child, calm and soothing.

This lullaby is woven by the world and poured into us in all kinds of restless movements. Like yarn spun into something one of a kind.
The blueprint the world handed us was never ideal, never realistic. To us islanders, the world sometimes looks like: A pink waterfall beneath cherry blossoms, whispering gentle comfort; or brown fruits under flame trees, teaching us to be strong; or green leaves falling from willows, urging us to be decisive.

But I don't love any of those emotional lessons. What love is the version of myself that found a shortcut along the blade's edge. So don't blame me for loving myself, for loving freedom, for loving independence. Because the world never really looked at us-not even a single glance. And so, for the past few centuries, we've tried to survive alone across different eras, in unfamiliar
spaces.

Each historical backdrop has been wildly different. The first guest spoke a language I still barely
understand. I felt estranged. Worse-he brought enemies with him. So, they both took us in, simultaneously. And we became the third person in a story not meant for us: Sometimes it was Dutch; sometimes it was Spanish. But none of them stayed long. Not even long enough for a full sip of coffee. Then they followed the sea and sailed away leaving behind our very first written language. The second guest arrived like an uninvited visitor-fast to enter, slow to leave. Like wind that passes through, yet heavy as silt that drags behind. Our memories of him remain
blurred. He flickers like an old slide projector-appearing and disappearing in the hallways of history, but no one really asks about him anymore. He gave us only a bottomless abyss, and a new identity that sways through time: an orphan among orphans. When he left, we were abandoned again. But soon, a third guest came. This one felt closer-more real-like the final stretch of a marathon. He was the one our great-grandparents talked to every day. To be honest, he was strange. But he did inject new architecture into this land. We called him The Architect, some even called him First Master: He looked cold, but still gave us order and elegance. We‘ve
kept it to this day- because bloodline is a force that rituals can't wash away. It's a pity, though.

He left us too. The spell he cast remains unbroken.

And he is the one we wanted to stay the most. No one has replaced him. He was once the version of ourselves we longed to become. We believed: if we just kept talking to him, maybe one day we could run faster than anyone else. But he left anyway. Then came the fourth guest-restless, disordered. He shattered the order left behind by the third, like seeds buried in mud-seeds that might have bloomed, if only they hadn't been washed away by a typhoon. This guest. his presence suffocates. He is the one I was born into. His rule looked glorious, his language loud and vibrant-but the aesthetics were off. Still, I have to thank him. Because he taught us: freedom requires sacrifice. Now, our sense of order is interwoven-between the third and fourth guests.

That's why our world smells like incense drifting from a Shinto shrine, yet also reeks of gunpowder from books set on fire. We are orphans. And orphans are us.

You thought we were the center of East Asia. You thought we came from Japanese etiquette, Chinese history, and Western democracy.

But I want to tell you-we are none of those.

I am Taiwanese-style.

I'm the kind of islander who eats danbing with soy milk for breakfast, wears simple blue-and-white flip-flops, but always stands on the right side of the escalator.
And don't assume we must have a lot of friends. We've had so many guests, after all. But no- we've never truly bonded with any of them. It's not that we hate company.

It's that every time we try to connect, our conversations end in silence. And little by little, we've grown lonelier and lonelier- so lonely that even a breeze could blow the tears straight off our faces. The four guests always left us with the same parting gift: a knife.

One that cuts deep.
And hurts even more.

Now we are left to clean up the wounds, slowly. We bought so many Band-Aids, so much gauze, because the scabs always fall off, again and again. Sometimes we take sedatives from the bedside drawer-those are for winter: Sleeping pills are for summer. That way we can drift off, and forget how much it hurts.
And in the morning, we still wear a smile, nodding at familiar strangers on the street.

We never meant to weave history, but those four guests left us a task we couldn't refuse: a pile of unfinished homework. We keep peeling, revealing-pressing new ointment onto wounds that won't stop reopening. And so the skin gets tougher. But that's what resilience is, isn't it?

Until one day, the wound goes too deep-like shattered porcelain scattered across the floor; sharp enough to cut your pale face open. That kind of pain, the world will never understand. Only we understand. Only we. Ours. Not yours. Go ask the color blocks-they won't tell you.

Whether blue, or red, or green-they will all fall silent. After applying the ointment, we remain poised- ready. Because we know: orphans must rely on themselves. Just like children without umbrellas, we learn to run faster.

Resilience wasn't gifted to us by the world. It was built slowly, through the warmth we felt in those long, quiet nights. And gentleness- I tasted the last trace of it in the bitterness of a sleeping pill. As for loneliness-I don't need to taste it. I was born with it. It was the very first friend the earth and the world ever gave me. And I have since become one with it. But don't you dare pity me. Because it's too late. This wait has lasted four hundred years. I fear I may have to wait another four hundred. So I began taking notes whenever a guest would visit. I tried to be a good
child, learning what they liked. But soon, my true nature would leak out. And when I lived unlike myself, I ran. I roared.

You said I was loud. But don't forget- the world never knew who I was. So how could I possibly be the loudest orphan?
I only remembered what the guests liked. So, I entrusted my soul to Miss Showa, left the land to Mr. Dutch and Mr. Foreign Barbarians, placed warmth in the hands of the Zheng Dynasty, and temporarily stored the books I had read with Mr. Zhonghua. But our heart- we gave it to Grandfather Taiwan.

Lately, the world has finally started glancing at me more often. I am still an orphan, but this time, the fifth guest is myself. I kept hearing noise in the corridors of four hundred years kept learning the signs that pointed to the exit. So this time, I no longer cry over moldy corners. I no longer panic just because tomorrow might rain. The sun in this world feels so warm. It's my first time
feeling it.

But I'm scared-scared that I might not be able to bask in it forever. Because the fear of losing warmth was planted in me by those four hundred years.
And we will always remember that once, an old man from the other side of the world gave us our very first name-Formosa.

Though we were soaked in loneliness just as he had foretold, we are becoming softer, calmer:
We are the orphans of East Asia.
We are the scab of the world.
But we are not afraid of sacrifice. Because I believe this is my mission.
Goodnight, fifth guest.

Yu-An Huang (Lillian)