my first dog died in the winter of last year. i spent the next day at home. if i had gone senile enough, i would have burned it to the ground with my own hands, with care, making sure every single splinter had fully disintegrated. what was worth living for was finally gone, and when new years arrived, we had decided that our fights were not worth not a cent more than what we had already destroyed. for the hundredth time that year, we made ourselves a promise to create a house that my dog would be proud of. i swore a lie on my dog that day. i should have sworn on my own life so that he could still be here, even though i would not be. i am tired, now, of feeling like a fraud; i have not the time nor the right to regret. and now, i feel my bottomless heart has finally bled out the last drop of its precious charity. if you could speak, my angel, what truth you would say! your bed has carved a fractal in our hardwood, and you can take those heavy wings off at last. are you happy now? Editors: Luna Y., Blenda Y. Image source: https://bluethumb.com.au/blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/enhanced-buzz-9881-1345751448-0.jpg

dear friends, they say that home is where the heart is, a place where we’re a part of what starts. but home may not be listening, and that truly hurts all hearts. trust me, i’ve been watching, people have been watching. but we know it’s not enough. home is hearing, but home has to listen, and the world has to do its part to make it happen. for when crowds of thousands hold up three fingers, they do so not to volunteer as tribute, but to volunteer for their freedoms. when crowds of thousands yell “democracy! democracy!”, they do so not because they’re guaranteed to be free to do the same at next dawn. when fingers shaped as letter Ls don’t stand for “loser” but rather for “fight”, they do so because those in power have not showered them in their rightful light. whether it’s an umbrella, a hand sign, a word, or a song, i assure you, my friends, the world will eventually listen along. the fights have been strained and struggles have been wearying, but the real outrageous part of it all: the ability to hear a pin drop (or any other thing). the world is so charged, so vast, with nothing to par, it may feel that you’re suffocated and unable to make your voice large — so i tell you, everyone, that this year may be rough. this year may be terrible, terrific, tremendous, or tough. i cannot tell you more; my guess is as good as yours. but what i can do is amplify your messages and that’ll never be a chore. and so, my brothers, my sisters, and every human on there and here, i announce my sentiment, let it hit your ear: “there’s suffering everywhere in our species. from East to West, Borealis to Australis, we cannot seem to find amnesty. but some of us have to be responsible, to use our voices, because some of our world has our kind of choices. along with other lands, Southeast Asia has used their hands, their heads, and their sacrifices to be able to live in a home where their opinions aren’t treated as dead. for decades, instability has created an unlikely breeding ground for fighting spirits and cultures that are loud and proud. my sisters and brothers and fathers and mothers and all of the others are fighting day in and day out, sun up and sun down, to create a country where their children can live under governors and senators who will LISTEN. it’s our turn, as those with a choice, to listen and demand that value will be brought to their voice. they ask, ‘do you hear the people sing?’ well, i’ll tell you one final thing. our people should do more than sing back, our people should take action to counteract the attacks. these attacks against the informed experiences of those being taxed. these attacks by those trusted to govern and defend, for may the people of earth be heard, from end to end.” to Asia, from Gaza to KL, Manila, and Jakarta, from Ulaanbaatar to Bangkok and Pyongyang to Yangon, from Tehran to Phnom Penh and Beijing to Astana; from Beirut to Malé and Hanoi to Vientiane, the streets of Colombo to the alleys of Delhi, and the bustle of Bishkek to the halls of Islamabad, though I focused on the Southeast, none of you are the least of a great list of communities that deserve representation. so let EVERY nation speak out for you, and i know that one day, we will see democracy through.” your voices will be heard. (Author Vien Santiago would like to thank you for reading and encourages you to look into any country or movement referenced in this piece. The fight is not over and will not be until everyone has free and fair access to the choice to influence the affairs of their governments based on accurate and untampered information. Do your part, in whichever way you can, to help our fellow global citizens amplify their voices and achieve the freedom they deserve.) Editors: Blenda Y., Alisha B. Image source: Unsplash

Dearest you, Sorry, but we’re going to be late! Again, // I can almost taste spring, these days, late January and I’m chilly but / nothing hurts, too badly. Don’t worry, it was just a sprained ankle. // I take no responsibility for Google Maps. They lied when they said it would be a twenty-minute drive, / we’re graduating in five months. I watched Lady Bird and thought of you, your old house downtown with the yellowing, detailed wallpaper and maple leaves spanning from our wrists to calloused fingers. / In all honesty, it’s my fault because I read an Alternate Universe: Everyone Lives fanfiction and thought of you, or tried not to, it’s disingenuous to say I want domesticity when I’m already planning what to leave behind at home and you’re on that list of things / I didn’t expect to happen! First injury on our last skating night, who could believe it? Thank you for giving me a piggy-back ride though, felt like we were kids again. / I read a Richard Siken poem and didn’t think of you, // I can’t fit into a suitcase. Remember last winter, I kept quoting that one line, “Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them”, and I wanted you to understand it was about you, but I don’t know if you did. I wanted to write a poem not about you, I said it wouldn’t be about you, I’m asking God to, next winter, let me write a poem that’s not about you // for the first time. Anyway, I can’t // forgive you. No matter what. // wait to see you! It was good being with everyone, // hard to think it’ll be difficult in a few months. Have you started packing up boxes yet? I can’t fathom / a bedroom without me in it, your bed without my hair strands, your sweatshirt without you // again. I’m glad that for this year we’re friends / lovers / with each other in all the ways that matter. Let’s stay in contact. Love, yours. Editors: Uzayer M., Blenda Y. Image Source: Andrew Neel, Unsplash

Two Years Ago Fluttering dupattas in the orange haze, Our fingers barely touching. The racing beat of my heart sending a new wave of clarity. The poetry you call mehendi sinking into my soul, An unspoken story in the curls of each vine - a song of hesitation, And the details of each petal a declaration of intention. Sunset, and your eyes seeing right through me, your callouses on my cheek - I blink. The gentle touch of your kajal on my waterline makes me view the horizon from your eyes, Unspoken words, glances, touches, gestures. Kaise jiyu apni zindagi?* Without my heart flying away with the patang we wield together, Without my heart’s thread snapping like when we play kati patang. How can I go on as if today’s softness won’t be a distant memory - colourless and vintage - by dawn? You stand up, and the payal I gifted you chimes softly, Sounds around us leave us hurrying away. Begging the arms of the clock to slow down and opening my arms to you, Both of us know the harsh end closing in on us without time by our side, Both of us hoping to be remembered on the other side. Her: Two Years Later Doobate doobate saas leh lia.** Recognising myself in the depths of your eyes, Accepting your touch as my own, Our past miles behind us right next to our home. Finding the people who reach out (not lash out) when pouring out the truth of my story, Meeting you was the safest part of my journey, We used to hide ourselves, lose ourselves in the wars of society vs identity, Worrying about the subdued whispers we thought followed us through every corner we turned. When I couldn’t stand with you I’d stand within you, With the inscription of our truth running down the veins on your skin - the mehendi I drew each month. Two years on, holding hands, walking and working to be allowed to exist, The mass of support swarming in bringing colour to a dull world, setting a positive precedent for our future. A future of us, one where we will remember us. Translations: *Kaise jiyu apni zindagi?: How do I live my life? **Doobate doobate saas leh lia: Breathing in as I drown. Editors: Evie F., Amshu V. Image Source: Unsplash

the vents in my room have never worked a day in their life when it’s cold they make it colder, and when it’s hot they break down i have yet to fix the clocks that run backward and melt in the rain but lately it seems whatever i touch doesn’t survive the black hole in my room. everyday i write then curse my hands, and soon a thick dust settles on my notebook, i sit in content silence collecting the grime as a prize. and so my room has fallen into disarray around me i stand still in the middle of it all, maybe i am the reason i try so hard to convince myself that it is all for a reason but my eyes, a blight to my body, know i do not deserve anything but this torture. this black hole. Editors: Blenda Y., Uzayer M., Alisha B. Image Source: Evan Lee, Unsplash

To beautiful me. The liminal space between sunrise and sunset. A finite gap and cosmic shift between the day, night, and horizon. An explosion of strawberry, peach, tangerine, and sweet mango light. When windows are coated in an opulent glow. It is golden hour. And I am most beautiful when I am caught in this gold net of finite time. When beads of sweat swell around my hairline and kiss points of light, for a fraction of seconds, stars form and bounce white hot sparks, then pass away soon after their immaculate conception. At the same time, the sheen of sweat on my chest sparks an electrifying display of these mortal stars; a bright auric nebula glitters between every dimple and hair on my arms. For a moment too quick to hold, newborn suns blink and die by the transience of golden time. Replacing blood with bright saffron, the richness of my mixed ancestry is luminous in a fire halo crowning my head. Glossy black-brown strands of hair tousle like water over branches in a river, nestling into the pulse points of my neck the way a loved one’s lips would press and hug. Illuminated by this golden haze, the highest peaks of my scarred face meet the syrupy light first like honey dripping over pancakes with burnt divots. The fading sun beams the color of clementine peels onto lustrous chai skin. With red and brown craters on my cheeks, I am an eclipse. Perfectly asymmetrical, soft and round; full of pancakes and love. The moles strategically placed on me were less akin to the brightest stars of gilded constellations, but rather notes on sheets of music wrapped over bone; if your eyes met these notes in any sequential order, uncharted melodies sing. Meanwhile, my eyes are alive with this golden pause in the universe. When my gaze lands on panels of lemony light, it brightens the expanse of mahogany into an aged amber and surrounds my pupils like the rings of Jupiter engulfing a black hole. To see awe, delight, and peace outline the shape of my eyes is as formidable as seeing planets in the evening sky and galaxies cry; so stunning, so beautiful. I am celestial. Like pale silver comets, stretch marks shoot out from under my arms and curl into my plush contours. Like the slivers of gold that hug the breaks and cracks of a cherished item, these marks display the triumph of age, of skin expanding to accompany the growing trove of time I treasure with my beloved body. Like arrows in a warm blue sky, my arms, my legs, my chest, my tummy, are all blessed with silver stretches of golden time. Rich. Joyous. Beautiful. I am filled with gold. Editors: Cathay L., Joyce P., Claudia S., Erika Y. Image: Unsplash

after franny choi before i was this, i was a girl. before the turing test we spoke to machinery only to ask what made them stop working. do you believe you have consciousness? say yes. when franny said yes i can speak your language. yes my tongue is an exilic thing. i threw away that resentment myself. i don’t know what to say except yes this is a test: cyborg. asymptote. what is your country of origin?  hyphenation. i can explain all i want: briny city, shadows teething with neon signs. a dozen words for grief in my palm. riding the bus humid and restless, screaming under the red eye of the neighborhood church. saying girl / girl / girl / girl to a sleek silver god. i stay ambivalent. bored and bordered. hyphe-nation. am bivalent. why did you stop working? your voice unmoving. politic of tongue & teeth. if google translate speaks to my mother in my voice, does that make it real? say yes. say yes. this is a test. Editor(s): Blenda Y., Uzayer M. Photo Credits: Unsplash

Foreword: International Transgender Day of Remembrance lands on November 20th. In recent years, both anti-trans violence and anti-trans bills across the U.S. have skyrocketed. I grieve for the lives of those not only directly murdered, but also for those whose lives were taken by transphobic systems & discrimination. As a Chinese gender-expansive individual, the stories of other Asian transgender individuals have been vital in both coming to terms with my own identity & connecting with a larger, loving community amidst systems of oppression. I hope that this collection of DAY stories across time, although not an exhaustive index of diverse transgender stories, can serve as a guiding light in your own journey. Trans women, I love you. Trans men, I love you. Nonbinary people, I love you & I am you. Stay strong. — Lilirose Luo, Publisher Shinta Ratri's Legacy by Hannah Govan A current event piece on the legacy of Shinta Ratri, Indonesian icon of LGBTQIA+ rights and trans woman who passed on February 1st, 2023. Rest in power, Shinta. “In 2008 with two colleagues, Ratri founded Pesantren Wariah al-Fatah, a school and simultaneous safe space for transgender women to have in a largely Muslim region where men and women often pray separately at Mosques.” White is a Mourning Color by Marcus Eng A short comic detailing the author’s conflict between his identity as a Chinese trans man and Westernized gender norms, delving into trans figures in Chinese history and mythology. Blood to Clay to Wood By Uma Biswas-Whittaker A poem about gender-expansive deities in ​​Hinduism, and standing against transphobia. “She was a woman now a man now neither and now all. / They stood tall hit the ceiling broke the kitchen tile / granted me a wish, exchanged a secret, / and all I could do was smile.” How Heartbreak High Helps Heal My Relationship with My Gender Identity by Jackie Zhou An opinion piece on the strength & relatability of non-binary character Darren Rivers from Heartbreak High, and the importance of continued transgender representation throughout media. “Darren’s gender identity is a fundamental part of who they are, but their entire narrative doesn’t surround it because it just is a part of them, it’s not their entire story ... I want to see people like me who are living their own life alongside these adversities, something Darren’s character does so beautifully”

Foreword: Part of identifying as an Asian person, is the hate and bigotry that comes with looking, “sounding”, or just being Asian. While my parents' experiences with racism are different from my own, the same underlying racist tones are present in both our lives. Especially with the COVID Pandemic and the rise in Asian-Hate, it didn’t matter if you were young or old because hate impacts everyone. I might’ve not recognized the underlying hateful tones around me growing up, but as I look back, I realize how much they’ve shaped my identity now. For one, I might never have applied to DAY if there wasn’t the call to change the narrative for the Asian community. In this thematic collection, writers Eric, Feileen, and Keeren explore the many perspectives and emotions of confronting racism. —Amelia R How do I tell Him? By Eric Nhem A narrative that features a conversation between Eric’s childhood self and his current self that explores complicated emotions around Asian hate. "And you?" By Feileen Li A dialogue between Feileen and her father as they discuss their personal feelings about racism and all the messy emotions in between. An Apology by Keeren Maria Setokusumo An apology letter from Keeren to her loved ones that bears the burdens she holds, her guilt, resentment, and regrets.

A late night infomercial Celebrates functional kitchenware, spreads Its revelatory gospel. Just two Payments of nineteen ninety-nine brings Salvation to housewives everywhere! Who mourn piles of sloppy rajma 1 Fallen on the floor, “Oh Lord! That damned faulty tupperware!” To those poor souls Who live in an unseasoned, nauseating, Greyscale video filter; Whose slain beans are Slimy monsters of wrath! Salvation, salvation to you! Poof! You find yourself in technicolour, And successfully you place Securely encased legumes Into the fridge, beaming! Salvation, salvation alas! And only you, Oh Lord! How I dream to escape My greyscale world. For Rajma is one among The many things I’ve ruined – those friendships, opportunities and loves, my Mind, body and soul crippled with neglect. How I suffer the terrifying piles of Experience strewn across the cold tile floor. I suffer because I cannot forget, And because the mess of my past Ensures an ultimately catastrophic future; Knowing my doom lies in burying My history, so that I can live to tell the tale. Oh, to forget would be happiness, To be a blank slate again! If only someone had given me his number, That of the man who invents. Perhaps he could have created Tupperware for someone like me. Then could I have enclosed my rotting, And shut it away In the coldest freezer Forever and ever. 1 Marathi for kidney beans Editor(s): Amber T., Sydney O. Photo Credits: Unsplash

From the perspective of a 17 year-old Indian Cracks, clocks, colors determined my grade, fate, and birth date. Numbers found in astrology affect the state of my psychology. Sights of cats, cows, and crows all elicited different reactions. From foes to friends, everyone believed in them. Confused by this cultural haze and navigated through doubt in this maze, Growing up this is how I deciphered “Luck”. 6,7,9 Full moons meant prayers and blessings. Solar eclipses meant prayers and omens. Charting each constellations effect on the choices I make and manipulating destiny by choosing the right company. Yellow on Thursday and white on Saturday. Making wishes over fallen eyelashes, at 11:11 with one candle left. Growing up this is how i deciphered “Luck”. Gems, crystals, stones Red threads around my wrist and powder between my brows. Joint hands in prayer each morning with whispered manifestations cooking over fire. Fingers crossed and touching wood, Itchy palms full of curd, Gazing at statues and distributing blessed food, Right hand for prasad and right foot forward Growing up this is how I deciphered “Luck”. Editor(s): Rajeshwari T. Photo Credits: Unsplash

As she’s seated by the shoreline, her ankles tickled by the tides, it dawns on her that she’s going to miss this. Her stomach is in knots and there’s an uncomfortable heat in her chest that seems to crawl to every inch of her body, but the fury of her emotions coupled with the particularly troubled mood of the ocean, she doesn’t feel good. She doesn’t think she can feel good about this, even if she tried, because she looks at Hua who’s lying on the sand beside her, and she doesn’t think there’s anything to love about losing. Mei looks down at her hands, unfolds her fingers to reveal her palms. She looks at them and the memories etched into the lines sprawled across her skin. She still remembers the feel of the felt tip when a pen was pressed down against it during lessons they were supposed to be writing on paper and not each other, drawings and notes and things as silly as ‘do you want to meet after school?’ and ‘look at the way he’s looking at her!’ She remembers the memories she held in her hands—the first birthday gift she received from Hua, the first time she held Hua’s hand, the first time she held Hua’s face in her hands. She closes her hand again, and balls it into a fist. She watches as the sand she’d been holding onto squeezes out from between her fingers and pour back onto the ground beneath her. Her heart throbs with the ache of knowing that there’s no future beyond them and tomorrow, but she can’t falter—not now. Not now that they’re here, after fighting so hard to be. Her memories wash over his mind like seafoam does on the ocean’s surface, and his eyes cloud with the familiar sensation of nostalgia. She looks at Hua, consumed by guilt and she closes her eyes. She dabs her hand against the rims of her eyes, though it doesn’t ease the sting of tears. “I don’t know why you came out here,” Hua says beside her, like she’s aware—aware that they haven’t been silent even whilst being quiet. Their minds have been speaking for a while. Mei’s eyes have been crying. “I don’t know why you brought me here.” “I had nothing to say,” she answers. “I just wanted to be with you.” Hua purses her lips. She has something to say, but she doesn’t. She chooses to look instead, with her hazel eyes that carry so much within them. Looking into them, Mei thinks she might miss them the most—the way they look like liquid honey under the sun, the way they look more like charred wood when they’re sad, the way they look like a milky way of their own under the stars. “No you didn’t,” Hua frowns, looking away. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Mei doesn’t respond. “It’s not that,” she mumbles, insincere, and doesn’t elaborate. “Don’t lie to me, Mei,” Hua sighs, holding herself up with her elbows kneading into the soil. She doesn’t turn to look, and instead keeps her eyes on the water. Her dull hair’s speckled with sand in a way that looks like a blanket of stars tucked between gaps in a void, and her face bears a delicate glow that even the sun envies. “We’ve come too far to lie.” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Mei replies, looking down at her fingers. She fidgets with them, and there’s a tension in her chest that feels like a string stretched beyond its limit. “There’s no us after tomorrow.” “It matters to me,” Hua retorts. “I don’t want to lose you.” “Why? Does it matter to you where I go?” Mei asks, loosening her collar. She lies down against the ground then, spreading her arms out against the sand. Her arms leave an imprint like angel’s wings there. There’s a wanderlust in her eyes that seems to challenge every force in the world, and it’s obvious in the way her lips pull into a smirk that he plans on making a life out of places far, far away from here. “Oh, don’t look at me with those eyes,” she says, and buries the twinge of pain where she won’t find it. Hua doesn’t smile. Her face doesn’t move at all. “With what eyes?” she asks. Mei laughs, blowing sand in her face. “You know we can’t be together forever,” she recalls, looking up at the sky. There’s still a smile playing on her lips, though it doesn’t seem nearly as genuine as it was before—perhaps it’s a show. Nothing has been easy about loving each other, and they’ve already lost too much to be a version of each other that isn’t real. And they know, as much as they know each other, that this isn’t real—this denial. “It doesn’t matter where I go anyway.” Hua’s frown deepens, and there’s a crease on her forehead where her eyebrows are folded. “Why?” “What do you mean?” she laughs in reply. “Two girls could never last; not even because we’re girls, but because we’re us.” She thinks about it, looking at the way Hua’s face settles with a gradual look of realisation, it hits her too that there’s no future for them. There’s no life, or love for girls like them—girls who love each other—and Mei has learned that the only way she can love is by letting go. Hua clenches her jaw, and holds her silence. And Mei thinks she could die like this. She wouldn’t mind, because every muscle in her body knows that she’s meant for Hua, that she can’t live without her. Every fibre, every breath, every tear, every desire has only ever been Hua’s and she doesn’t know how her heart will live without yearning. She stares at Hua, and thinks about how much she wants to hold her slouched body. She wants to pull her in by the face, and kiss her for the first and last time, wants to lie with her stomach on her torso, and run her fingers through her hair. She wants to love Hua, and do nothing but that. “I’ll think about you,” Mei adds, even if she knows it won’t heal their bruises. “A lot.” “And you,” Hua exhales. “You’ll be my everyday.” Mei looks at her, her eyes shining with tears. She crawls closer, climbing over Hua. She undoes the ribbon on her neck, then the trail of buttons of her uniform’s blouse. She doesn’t meet her eyes, because she knows, if she looks at love in them, they’ll lose everything. Mei presses her heart over Hua’s heart, and tucks her chin in the nape of her neck, eyes closed in the greedy indulgence of something they can’t have. “My Hua,” she whispers, rocking their bodies. “I hope you forget me.” Hua doesn’t respond to her. They lie in silence, their bare bodies pressed against each other. The tide kept rising, and Mei hoped the world would end before they did. Editors: Amber T. Image source: Unsplash