Prologue: The Girl Who Chased Paper Planes
The flickering glow of the television screen was often the only light in the living room during the late afternoons of Jinkee’s childhood. While other children in the neighborhood were busy organizing tea parties for plastic dolls or racing bicycles down the dusty streets, Jinkee was usually found cross-legged on the floor, her eyes wide with wonder. She wasn’t captivated by the shimmering gowns of animated princesses or the predictable happily-ever-afters of fairy tale films. Though she owned her fair share of dolls and had seen the classic movies, they never quite sparked the same fire in her soul as a well-timed power-up or a brilliantly solved mystery.
For Jinkee, the real magic lived in the high-octane world of anime. She found herself far more invested in the relentless determination of a boy striving to become the greatest ninja in his village or the strategic brilliance of a young detective trapped in a child’s body. The colorful, often chaotic animation of Dragon Ball, Naruto, and Detective Conan provided a sense of adventure that felt much more tangible than any glass slipper. These stories taught her about resilience, the value of hard work, and the idea that being different wasn’t just okay—it was a superpower.
This unconventional preference had an unexpected benefit within the walls of her home. Her younger brother, Matthew, found in his sister a perfect companion for his own imaginative games. Being only two years apart, the siblings shared a bond that was forged in the fires of shared interests. While Matthew had an insatiable fascination with the prehistoric might of dinosaurs and the elegant strength of horses, he found a willing audience and a creative partner in Jinkee. She didn’t mind role-playing as a trainer or a strategist in his miniature worlds, and he, in turn, never questioned why his sister would rather discuss the mechanics of a “Kamehameha” wave than the latest fashion trends in a doll magazine. They were a team, navigating the quiet corners of their house with a shared language of fiction and play.
However, as the years began to pull Jinkee toward the horizon of adolescence, the world outside her home started to feel increasingly restrictive. By the time she reached high school, the social landscape had shifted into something she barely recognized. The girls she had grown up with were suddenly speaking a different dialect—one made of shimmering lip gloss, meticulously painted fingernails, and the dramatic, sweeping romances of K-dramas. They spent their lunch breaks huddled over magazines, discussing skincare routines and the latest boy bands with a fervor that Jinkee simply couldn’t replicate.
She tried, occasionally, to bridge the gap. She would sit with them and listen to their excited chatter about leading men and heart-fluttering plot twists, but her mind would inevitably drift back to the tactical battles and complex world-building of her favorite series. To Jinkee, the hyper-feminine rituals felt like a costume she didn’t know how to wear. She moved with a certain utilitarian grace, preferring the freedom of movement that came with oversized shirts and sturdy trousers. She didn’t see the point in agonizing over a chipped nail when there were stories to be written and family business to attend to.
This disconnect became most painful when it touched the fragile territory of the heart. Her first real crush arrived in the first year of high school, a boy with a kind smile and a laugh that made her stomach do somersaults. After weeks of gathering her courage, she finally confessed her feelings, only to be met with a confused, almost pitying look. He rejected her gently, but the words still stung: she just wasn’t his type. He liked girls who were soft, who smelled of floral perfume and wore skirts that twirled. He liked girls who acted like the heroines in the dramas everyone else was watching.
That rejection became a recurring theme in her teenage years. It seemed that every time Jinkee allowed herself to be vulnerable, the result was the same. The boys she liked viewed her more as a “pal” or an “oddity” than a romantic interest. They would tell her, with varying degrees of bluntness, that her look and her interests simply didn’t align with what they were looking for in a girlfriend. Each “no” was a small brick in a wall she began to build around her heart, but it never quite managed to snuff out the flickering light of hope. Deep down, tucked away in the quietest part of her soul, she still held onto the belief that someone, somewhere, would see her for exactly who she was. She spent many nights whispering prayers into the darkness, asking God if perhaps there was a Prince Charming out there who didn’t mind a princess in a hoodie.
By the time she reached Senior High School, Jinkee had reached a sort of truce with the world. She didn’t overhaul her personality, but she allowed for small, subtle shifts. She discovered that a swipe of lip tint didn’t feel like a betrayal of her identity; it was just a small touch of color for when she stepped out of the house. She still avoided the heavy foundations and intricate eye shadows that her peers favored, but the tint felt like a manageable compromise. It was a tiny concession to the “girly” world that still felt like hers.
Her eighteenth birthday brought a milestone that changed the atmosphere of her daily life. Her parents, who had always watched her navigate her unique path with a mix of quiet concern and unwavering support, surprised her with a gift she had wanted for as long as she could remember. A tiny, energetic Yorkshire Terrier puppy burst into her life, a bundle of silver and tan fur that she immediately named Poppy. Poppy didn’t care about Jinkee’s clothes or her lack of makeup; the dog only cared about the warmth of her lap and the sound of her voice. In the quiet moments between helping her mother at the eatery and managing her own thoughts, Poppy became her constant shadow, a small reminder that she was loved unconditionally.
As she moved into her college years, pursuing her degree in Hospitality Management, Jinkee’s style evolved slightly further. She began to incorporate more feminine pieces into her wardrobe for family gatherings or special occasions, though she strictly avoided anything she deemed too revealing. She found a middle ground that allowed her to respect her family’s traditions while still feeling like herself. However, there remained one ironclad rule: she would never, under any circumstances, wear high heels. To Jinkee, the idea of sacrificing the comfort of her feet for a few inches of height was an absurdity she wasn’t willing to entertain. The soreness that followed a few minutes in heels was a physical manifestation of the societal pressures she had spent years navigating, and she chose her sneakers and flats with a sense of quiet rebellion.
Despite the challenges of feeling like an outsider in a world obsessed with a specific brand of femininity, Jinkee found her sanctuary in the written word. Every evening, once the dinner rush at the eatery had subsided and the house had grown quiet, she would open her private notebook. This was where she was most truly herself. She didn’t just write stories; she wrote letters to God. It was her way of processing the day, of pouring out the frustrations of being misunderstood and the quiet joys of a successful bake or a moment of peace with Poppy. Writing was the bridge between her inner world and the reality she lived in—a way to make sense of the friction between who she was and who the world expected her to be.
As she closed her notebook on another evening, the ink still fresh on the page, she leaned back and listened to the rhythmic breathing of Poppy asleep at the foot of her bed. The rejections of the past and the uncertainty of the future were still there, but they felt a little lighter after being committed to paper. She looked out the window at the city lights, a silent prayer for her “Prince Charming” still echoing in the back of her mind.
She took a deep breath, the familiar scent of her mother’s cooking still faintly clinging to her clothes, and tucked herself under the covers.
“Tomorrow is another day.”
