In The Beginning
(Pt.1 Creation)

Roy was the first person I took note of after joining the fellowship group. He’s a rare kind of gentle, unconfined brother—and to this day, the only one able to engage me in sincere, humble conversation.

It all began during my second Wednesday fellowship gathering last August, which took place at the group leader’s home. That was also the first time I ever opened up about a traumatic experience from my past.

Back then, I had just met the group and held no particular impression of anyone.

Roy was sitting on the floor, between Tina and me. During the meditation segment of a gospel song, Tina began to cry. I had no emotional resonance with modern worship songs, but I really wanted to go and comfort her.

At that time, I was still deeply struggling with complex PTSD—my entire being felt like a mass of darkness and confusion. Social situations already made me anxious, and sharing my past trauma was a huge emotional challenge. The inner battle between the impulse to get up and comfort her and the fear of doing so triggered a panic attack—my whole body went into a muscle spasm.

In that moment, I deeply wished I could turn to Roy, sitting beside me, and ask him to hold my hand—to keep me from curling up on an island of isolation.

But in the end, I simply clung to the edge of the couch and got through it on my own.

After the gathering, Roy came over to speak to me, expressing empathy and concern.

I was so surprised. In that moment, I felt like God had heard my pain—He had reached out to me through Roy.

So ever since then, I regarded Roy as a special brother.

At future gatherings, I watched him more closely and confirmed that he was indeed reliable. He was the first person I felt I could turn to for help while living abroad on my own—and I eventually did turn to him.

In my heart, that sense of “accessibility” turned into a form of dependence, even though we weren’t close.

Due to years of dissociation, I couldn’t feel my own existence. I was like a shadow with no boundaries, either overexposing or completely withdrawing in social settings. In November, when my dissociation symptoms were at their worst, I sent Roy a casual message—he didn’t reply.

I suddenly realized I had overstepped—and that I was ill.

That made things a little awkward between us. Later, I could sense him deliberately avoiding me. But at group gatherings, he still cared, still guided me, still prayed for me. So I came to see him as a cautious but truly kind person.

Later, from conversations with others, I became even more convinced: his awkwardness wasn’t coldness, but a restrained kind of thoughtfulness.

For a brother, that is an incredibly rare and precious quality.

But I never explained anything to him, because I was still completely cut off from my own feelings and had no idea what was going on inside me. That unreplied message became heavy in my mind, so I simply deleted the chat—out of sight, out of mind.

Until this February, when I finally emerged from dissociation and regained a clear sense of self. I remembered who I was and could finally feel my own existence again.

That month, I attended my first gathering of the year. The icebreaker question was: “Who is the first person you’d turn to when facing a problem?”

That question was painfully real for me. I only ever turn to people physically close to me—and reaching out to family in China would only lead me into a trap.

So I answered Tina—she was the sister I was most familiar with at the time. Then Roy—he was the most dependable person in my eyes.

I know to others it might have sounded ambiguous, but it was simply the honest truth.

He wasn’t there yet. When he arrived, some of the others teased him: “Roy, someone said your name!”

“Really? Who?”

I smiled and raised my hand. In that moment, I couldn’t tell whether his smile was from honor or embarrassment.

Still, I didn’t want this to become a burden for him. So the next day I messaged him on WhatsApp to explain the context, clear up any misunderstanding, and express my thanks.

He replied quickly, his tone unmistakably joyful—like a child.

After that, there was no more awkwardness between us.

After the Tina incident, I wanted to secretly send gifts to the group members to apologize on her behalf. It was Roy whom I asked for the list of original members.

When I realized I was at the very center of the torrential flood disaster last year, he was the first person I asked: “Do you think I’m crazy?”

That Wednesday night, he was also the first person I shared the draft of The Outage with.