I always seem to find myself in this hiding spot whenever we host family reunions. I knew I’d have to face the consequences later. Mom would berate me for not socializing with the family who had flown in just to see me. But deep down, I knew the truth. They didn’t come all this way to catch up with me like normal families do. They came to unleash their disappointment, to remind me that I wasn’t perfect, and to tell me how Mom and Dad had made a mistake marrying each other. The story always changed depending on who you asked.

I bounce my leg nervously as a bird flies past. I take a deep breath and look around. The large balcony stretches before me, the glass railing acting as a barrier. The crates I’m sitting on creak as I swing my feet back and forth, gently.

“Where is that disappointment they call their son?” I hear my mom’s sister snap as she opens the sliding doors and steps through. My aunt, along with three cousins, saunter toward the railing and lean on it, sipping their drinks. They don’t see me, so I just ignore them like I always do, staring into the distance.

“Why is he even here? Shouldn’t he be at university or something?” one of my cousins asks.

“Camille says he’s doing school online.”

I hear them all scoff in unison.

“Isn’t he a musician? How does that work?”

“Don’t ask me,” my aunt says, “I’m not the psycho.”

They all chuckle, taking swigs of their beers.

I don’t move or look their way once, but somehow, my cousin spots me. My aunt huffs in disgust and leaves, while my cousins saunter toward me.

“What are you, a spy? Why are you eavesdropping?”

I say nothing. I always say nothing. They all think I’m mute, but I only speak when it’s about one thing: my music.

“We’re talking to you, Emley—Oh, I meant Emery.”

They laugh, and I hold back an eye roll. Why do they always act so childish? They’re only a couple years older than me, and I’m nineteen. They continue, talking as though I’m not there, making fun of my hair, my eyes—just whatever they can come up with on the spot.

“How’s being unemployed going for you?”

“Yeah, I heard online school is just an excuse to get us off your back.”

I stand and brush the dust off my pants.

“Aww, have you had enough of us?”

They all laugh.

“Leave him alone!” I hear a heavily accented voice snap.

My cousins roll their eyes.

“The Asian side of the family is here. That’s our cue to leave.”

I get shoved before they disappear downstairs.

“Oppa,” my other cousin calls. She greets me with a kiss on the cheek. I don’t make eye contact with her. If she’s here, that means the reunion has officially started.

“You can’t let them walk all over you like that,” she beams at me. “I heard your latest song. It sounds really good. Too bad it’s not getting many views. But I’m sure it will eventually.”

Hana talks too much for my liking.

“There’s such a nice view up here…”

I leave Hana to babble to herself and head downstairs. Almost immediately, the house goes quiet.

“Ah, there he is!” My dad exclaims to break the awkward silence. Those who tolerate me smile, and the others give a curt nod.

“C’mon,” my mom whispers harshly in my ear, “greet your family.”

I bow respectfully to my Korean relatives. “Annyeonghaseyo.” To the rest of the family, I nod, grab my keys, and head out the door. As I walk down the driveway, I can hear them talking about me. I’ve done this at every family reunion since I could drive.I get into my car and close the door, the cool silence of the interior settling around me. I glance at the rearview mirror and notice, for the first time, that the Polaroid is fading. I’ve had it for four years now. The reason I used the Polaroid camera was so that the image would never fade from my memory. But I guess everything fades, eventually.

I start the car and hit the road.

“We used to capture moments,” I say as I merge into a lane. My heart beats faster, as if it senses a poem is about to form. I pull over and hurry to pull out my notepad.

We used to capture moments,

With bright and bold colors,

Now the memories fade,

Like the stories we used to tell.

I look at the legal pad as tears threaten to form. Maybe in this life, no one would appreciate my songs. But when I write poems, I write them for Grace. I pick the Polaroid off the rearview mirror and kiss it gently.

“I love you, Grace.”