Hong Kong Harbour

emmy chen

The courtyard at my international school had a steep, uneven slope that, more often than not, turned even the most coordinated of us into graceless fools. At the bottom of the ramp was an oval where all our tag games were to start— a patch of dirt that felt like the world’s most thrilling racetrack. I spent my lunch breaks there, playing games rather than confining myself to the manacles of the red-carpeted junior library like some well-behaved bookworm. But for weeks, I had managed to avoid being “it”. I had become the master of excuses: “I can’t run today, I’m tired”, or “My shoelaces are mysteriously untied”, or “I think I sprained my left pinky toe”. But today, I had finally exhausted my list of plausible warrants that allowed me to avoid this situation. My turn had come.

So, swallowing my pride, I began the obligatory count of ten as the boys tore across the courtyard, feet pounding the rocky ramp with all the grace of a herd of stampeding elephants. It wasn’t long before I had tagged every last one of them like I was accumulating the Vogue magazines I collect today. It was down to the final boy— the fastest of the lot. I had saved him for last, of course, eager to see the look on his smug face when I wiped that smirk off. He was the kind of kid who looked like he’d never outgrown his newborn baby jaundice, or someone who had just emerged from a golden-hour filter.

I was so close now. My hands shot out, inches from his back, my entire body leaning into the chase like a cartoon character mid-sprint. I grabbed onto his uniform as I started to reel him in, then finally with a SMACK, I nailed my victory in his back. I collapsed onto the ground, arms flung out in complete exhaustion as if I’d just run the London marathon.

I lay there on the sun-baked pavement, chest heaving, staring up at the sky, wondering how something so simple, chasing each other around the courtyard, could leave me so spent. It was the purest kind of tiredness, the kind that only childhood was capable of offering. I sprawled there with my cheek pressed against the rough ground when suddenly, wham!— I felt a weight slam into my diaphragm. I looked up to see the Jaundice Boy sitting squarely on my stomach, like a small, immovable boulder. He was pouting miserably, and clearly petty about what had just happened. He couldn’t have weighed more than thirty kilograms, but at that moment, he was a human wrecking ball. I tried to wriggle out from underneath him, but the effort was simply futile. When he finally let me loose, I could barely catch my breath before he charged after me, his wild determination stronger than my will to stay flat on the ground.

Without a second thought, I bolted, racing up the ramp like my life depended on it, dodging jump ropes and hopscotch squares like hurdles in an Olympic sprint. My knees scraped the rocky slope, but I didn’t stop— not when there was a potential stampede of petty boys behind me. Every step felt like a desperate attempt to outrun the inevitable trample. I kept running until I heard the school bell ring, like the sound of a referee’s whistle, signalling the end of the game. I dove into class just in time, breathless, covered in dirt, and feeling like I had just survived an adventure on par with an episode from Phineas and Ferb.

A lesson stuck with me after the bell rang. I realised that the courtyard had a rhythm, and it wasn’t about being the fastest or the strongest— it was about learning how to tune in to the rhythm. I had figured out how not to get trampled by the rhythm, how to stay in motion without being swallowed by the rush. I sat in Maths class thinking about how Hong Kong, with its endless energy, and continuous rush hours, was just the “Final boss” version of the courtyard. The city never stopped, and it demanded you keep pace with it. As an eight-year-old, it often felt like I was running just to stay out of the way of everything rushing past me. But that was the day that I found my rhythm within the madness and learnt how not to get engulfed by the world around me.

*

The city I lived in had higher stakes than the courtyard. In our games, the worst-case scenario was that you’d get tagged out, sulking on the sidelines, and maybe, if you were particularly unlucky, have to deal with the humiliation of your friends throwing grass at you. In Hong Kong, the worst-case scenario wasn’t immediately clear, but I had a feeling it involved getting swallowed whole by a mob of commuters during rush hour, or worse, becoming an unwilling participant in a game of human bumper cars with one of the city’s trams. You’d be minding your own business, walking down the street, and—bam—a “Ding Ding” tram wizzes so close you can practically smell the exhaust fumes.

If you weren’t careful, the city would chew you up and spit you out like an overcooked wonton. One minute, you’re peacefully walking and the next, you’re in a human jungle gym, dodging umbrellas, briefcases, and an old lady with elbows that could rival a sumo wrestler. As I was trying to keep up with this momentum, I started noticing something different. I began to see those people, thousands of them, who, instead of running, chose to stand still. Unlike the others, they weren’t racing to catch the next train or keeping pace with the crowd— they were stopping. These were the protesters.

*

The protests felt like an eruption of everything I had learned to ignore. It was an explosion against China for taking away their freedoms after the handover from the British. I was raised in the rhythm of British influence, surrounded by the relics of colonial Hong Kong. But as the city shifted under the new rule, the familiar paths of childhood began to feel unfamiliar, even hostile. The paths were barricaded, silent except for the occasional shout in the distance. The roads became obstacles, and the classrooms were haunted by speckles of empty desks from children who could not make it through the blockade. In our house, we discarded any umbrellas that had a speck of yellow. It was the newly deemed symbol of resistance, representing political weakness. It had been used to shield countless attacks of tear gas and pepper spray.

We were unable to leave the house wearing black clothes, in the corner of my closet was a black skirt, a charcoal blouse I outgrew before I could wear, and a navy sundress that could be mistaken as black. My mother refused to drive me to tennis practice in Causeway Bay. It was too close to the protests, too dangerous. The protests weren’t just about politics; they were a reaction to a city that had become too fast, too divided between the Chinese and the British. The police fired bullets at the crowds. Two lives were robbed. Thirteen committed suicide. The unrest robbed my right to go to school, my freedom to walk along the streets without looking over my shoulder, and most importantly, it robbed my right to see my siblings. My parents, in fear for their safety, sent them to school eight thousand miles away from home. I was too young to understand and too young to go with them. Life was a blur.

*

With my siblings gone, life felt so much faster. I was trampled and left alone to figure out how to keep up with the rush of everything on my own. The noise I once resented was filled with silence I no longer wanted. I hated those 5 AM violin practices my brother would do. It felt like the violin had it out for me, screeching and wailing like an angry cat trapped in a violin case. I’d roll over and pull the blanket over my head, trying to shield myself from the sonic assault as my pillows begged for mercy. That violin was relentless like it had an existential crisis that needed to be shared with the entire house at ungodly hours. It was torture. But I never said anything, I just fumed quietly.

And then, suddenly, it stopped. The violin went silent, serenading elsewhere. I woke up one morning and realised that it’d been weeks since I’d heard that off-key symphony. It was like someone had hit the mute button on my life. I wanted the chaos back, squawks and squeaks and all. The house was too quiet.

The fern-green balcony that my mother painted when we first moved in used to be a makeshift stuffed animal kingdom, where my bears and penguin, named Waddles, would be lined up like they were front row at a concert. They would sit patiently, ready for whatever I had planned would be their fate for the day. My siblings, like tiny terrorists, would torment my delicate army of plushies, dangling Waddles over the railing like she was on trial for some imaginary crime. They felt like it was their duty as the older siblings to afflict me with as much suffering as they were capable of causing. I’d scream, flail, bargain, and offer anything that could save Waddles from her doom. The worst part was the wait. Waddles would hang between life and a sixteen-story drop, a tiny, helpless gladiator in a battle with gravity. I’d stretch my arms out, hoping for a miracle, my heart thumping like I was having heart palpitations. They’d tease me as my stomach dropped into my shoes, the balcony suddenly feeling like it was the edge of the world. Then, just when I thought I might pass out, they’d yank Waddles back up, safe and sound. It was always the same. The laugh, the handoff, like they didn’t just traumatise Waddles for life.

*

The silence between my siblings didn’t last long, though, because two metres above our green balcony was a grey one—smeared with rabbit droppings, like gummy bears that had been forgotten at a kid’s birthday party. My upstairs neighbour could be heard leaping around, trying to catch the rabbit with all the grace of a toddler in a tutu, only for the bunny to dart under the couch, vanishing for days like it was in some sort of self-imposed exile. We never said a word about the noise, of course, mostly because I didn’t notice the noise with my siblings here, and also because my mum was BFFs with their mother upstairs. Our families each had two kids to start off with. Naturally, both families decided to complete the trilogy and went ahead and had another kid, which is how I became best friends with Elliott and got roped into this lifelong saga of forced camaraderie. We were chums joined at the hip until we hit eight, and declared a full-blown war over which pigeons in the playground liked us more. There was no peace treaty. No ceasefire. Just awkward standoffs and silent treatments until our mothers dragged us into yet another gathering of gritted teeth and side-eye.

I, of course, was the undisputed sovereign of the pigeons. Elliott, on the other hand. believed that he was the pigeons’ favourite, that they had a secret pigeon fan club that I wasn’t invited to and that his name was written in gold letters on the membership card. Spoiler alert: they didn’t. The pigeons were too busy fighting over half-eaten crisps to even notice us. But Elliott, with all the confidence of a kid who thinks his stick-figure drawings belong in the Louvre, treated the whole thing like a royal election.

Every time our mothers dragged us into their forced “family get-togethers,” it was like being trapped in a bad reality show where no one wins, but everyone leaves with a condolence trophy and a bruised ego.

Eventually, I could take it no more. Without my siblings to distract me from the noise of the pouncing, I stampeded upstairs and raised a tiny fist to their door. Their house helper answered, greeting me with too polite of a smile for the task at hand. I squeezed past her, a little bit too eager to start my protest. I knew the layout of their house, I’d been there a billion times. I headed straight to Elliott’s room, ready to give him the biggest telling-off of his life.

I ran into a small problem along the way. At eight, I was practically equal to the height of a garden gnome. I stretched my arm upwards, but I couldn’t reach their newly renovated doorknob. At a loss, I stood there, looking up at it like it was some secret lair I had no business being in. Eventually, the housekeeper let me in, probably because I looked too pitiful standing there like a child trying to unlock a door with the sheer power of frustration.

“Your bunny’s a menace” I snapped at Elliott. “It’s always scurrying around and you’re stomping after it with your big fat feet!”

“I don’t have big fat feet!” he retorted defensively.

“Yeah, you do. Your feet are massive. They’re so big they need their own zip code!”

“Well if my feet have a zip code, yours have their own area code!”

“No they don’t!”

We both went silent for a second, glaring at each other like we were about to start duelling. Then, out of nowhere, absurdity hit us. We burst out laughing, forgetting about the pigeons. War was finally over.

*

The next day, our parents let us out alone, under the condition that we stuck together. It felt like we were handed the keys to freedom, and we wasted no time plotting our escape to the heart of Hong Kong. We decided to head to Kowloon to witness the Symphony of Lights, a ten-minute spectacle that had more light rays than the Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony in Westminster. I wasn’t surprised when I found out Hong Kong was ranked #1 for light pollution— this city doesn’t dim its lights, it throws a full-on party every night and expects everyone to RSVP.

While we waited for the party to start, we wandered through the Jade Market and the Flower Market because what was a night out in Hong Kong without buying something you don’t need and probably can’t afford? The markets were alive with the kind of energy that I could only describe as “organised chaos.” Vendors shouted their prices like they were over caffeinated auctioneers selling the Mona Lisa. I loved the havoc, the way everyone was one bad haggle away from a street brawl over a jade bracelet. We dodged florists trying to stuff bouquets in our arms and ignored the endless supply of “authentic” knock-off watches, and finally stumbled upon our real goal of the evening—food. We found a stall and grabbed some milk tea and egg tarts. These weren’t just snacks, they were the unofficial national treasures of Hong Kong, delivered straight to my hands by a small, sleepy-looking woman. The milk tea was a velvety miracle in a cup, sweet enough to make you forget about all your problems, and the egg tart was perfectly buttery and flaky, capable of ruining any self-control I had left.

We took the snacks to a railing by Victoria Harbour, our backs pressed against the concrete, and watched as the city got ready for its nightly performance. At exactly 8:00, the show began. Lights refracted across the waterfront like a mirrorball had arisen and started throwing a temper tantrum. The music swelled in, accompanying the fireworks that burst out of the darkness while the lasers danced across the sky, flashing across the buildings like they were trying to outshine each other. The harbour turned into some sort of technicolour fever dream. It was a full-on spectacle; it was everything I loved about Hong Kong.

The Star Ferry ride home was always the best part of the evening. It was like being cradled in the arms of the sea, the saltwater whispering secrets from the deep as the boat rocked gently beneath us. The hum of the engines and the creak of the old wooden deck were something I knew so well, like the croon of an old lullaby. I leaned against the railing, watching the city blur into a collection of sparkles, I could have stayed there forever.

And then Elliott said it.

“Are you still gonna remember us when you move to Singapore?”

I turned to him, my heart skipping a beat. “What?”

I kept waiting for him to laugh it off, but the words didn’t land like a joke. They felt like a stone had just dropped into my stomach.

“You’re moving to Singapore right?” he said.

My mind went blank. Singapore? Moving? I stared at him, the boat rocking under my feet like it was the only thing holding me in place.

“What are you talking about?” The words came out in a rush. This had to be a joke.

“My mum told me. She said you’re leaving soon.”

I felt like the ground was slipping out from under me. This could not be happening. The world suddenly felt too big, too fast, like someone had just told me my childhood was being packed away in a box and shipped off to somewhere I didn’t belong.

“I didn’t know,” I said. It didn’t feel real. Hong Kong wasn’t a place you just left.

The silence stretched between us, thick like fog. It felt heavy, like the universe was waiting for something I couldn’t offer. The city outside the ferry seemed to pull away, the lights on the skyscrapers blurring together. I stared down, watching the ripples break the reflection of the skyline, and wondered if that was how my memories of Hong Kong would fall apart too—slowly, quietly, until nothing was left but a faint outline of what used to be.

When I got home that night, the weight of the information was pressing hard against me. I slipped my shoes off, my hands fumbling with the velcro of my sneakers. I walked towards my mum and asked if we were leaving. She said yes. She said it simply, like I had always known, and the finality of it hit me.

*

The day I left Hong Kong arrived quietly as if the city itself was holding its breath for me. I had finally grown accustomed to the rhythm of the streets, the hustle and bustle, the pulse of the trams slicing through the roads. I packed my bags and said my goodbyes, each zipper a soft click against the backdrop of the apartment I had spent so many years in, now almost unrecognisable to me. There was a strange stillness in the air, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the noise of my childhood here—the late-night conversations with my sister, the hurried exits in the mornings, the click of the DVD player that had become part of the soundtrack of my life.

I stood by the window, staring out at the view I had taken for granted, at the city that had never once stopped moving. It wasn’t perfect, and it hadn’t always been kind. I had learned that life was less about outrunning the chaos, and more about finding the moments where I could just exist within it, just as I had done in the courtyard all those years ago.

It was strange. The rhythm I had once fought to keep up with now felt like it was slipping away from me, just out of reach. The street noise that had always felt suffocating was now a faint hum, barely there. I turned away from the window, breathing in the apartment. I looked around at the rooms that had witnessed my growth, my pains, my joys, and my quiet moments of solitude. Every nook held a memory, every shadow whispered my name.

I reached for the door handle, and as I stepped over the threshold, I felt the weight of it all—the pull of everything I was leaving behind. I paused, standing in the doorway, my gaze drifting one final time over the apartment. And then, I closed the door softly behind me, leaving it behind.

It struck me then, how strange and delicate life had been, how small decisions and moments had shaped everything. It was all one continuous domino chain. That one day I had sprinted across the courtyard, and the sudden urge to run from the boys behind me had led me to find the rhythm of the world around me. That rhythm had taught me how to survive Hong Kong’s chaos, how to move through its pace without being swallowed whole. And then the protests, the silence in the streets, the absence of my siblings—each moment had stacked upon the next, shaping the course of my life, pushing me towards this.

The decision to leave Hong Kong wasn’t mine, not in the way I had once thought. It had been built by every action, every encounter, every moment that had gone through my life like a flash, a whispered change. The cascade of events had stretched far beyond the city, far beyond my control, until I stood at the edge of something new. And so, as I stepped into the unknown, the city still alive behind me, I realised the truth of it all: life doesn’t just happen—it flows outwards, quietly and steadily, and in leaving, I had become a part of that change. It was a small shift, barely perceptible but enough to set everything in motion.

Emmy Chen is a freshman at Interlochen Arts Academy in Interlochen, MI, and is a creative writing major. She is from Singapore. Her works have been recognised in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and by the John Locke Institute.