Long-Distance

Sonya Bui
→ MA GAC 2026

M haphazardly enters full-screen. On the other side, three hours ahead of him, is his family, huddled around a corpse. Two of his nephews are tampering with the webcam. M knows he’s too early, because his relatives have yet to finish grooming the corpse, its face waxy, mouth agape.

One by one, M’s relatives filter into the grid: pixelated, under fluorescent lights, golden-hour windows. Some are muted, others frozen mid-expression. The stream glitches. M stares at the open mouth, then the squares of family members silently crying, or pretending to. Someone's dog barks offscreen. A little girl walks into frame and is shooed away.

M doesn’t bother turning his camera on. There’s nothing he wants to add to the mosaic of half-faces and digital condolences.

The corpse lies still but never seems at rest. Offscreen, someone whispers, “Should we try closing it?” No one replies.

A notification pops up on M’s screen; “Here.”

M checks the clock. 8:27 PM. It’s Gina. He’d been expecting her, and yet her curt disruption to the funeral felt unsettling. He mutes his laptop before walking to the door. The Zoom feed plays quietly behind him.

When he opens the door, Gina greets him with a swift hug. Then she brushes past him without making eye contact, like she knows exactly where she’s going. She sheds her coat and kicks off her shoes in a single practiced motion. The smell of her—citrus and smoke—floods the narrow hallway.

They move together as if sleepwalking. She leads him to the bed, pulling him down wordlessly. She unbuttons his shirt, her touch precise, clinical. She climbs into his lap languidly, like a cat. Over her shoulder, M can see his family crying in low-resolution. He readjusts his focus on Gina. Her skin is warm, almost too warm. He watches her body move. Watches his uncle’s body not.

The Zoom feed flickers. Someone tries to adjust the camera. It jerks sideways, loses focus, then re-centers on the corpse. The mouth still hasn’t closed. Someone tries to tilt the camera down to crop it out of view, but overshoots. The image is now mostly ceiling.

Gina straddles M, her breath slow and deliberate. She seems to be enjoying herself, moaning softly with each sway of her hips. M reaches up and gently places his hand over Gina’s mouth. Not to silence her, exactly—just to make sure she’s there. Her breathing slows beneath his palm.

In his mind’s eye, M sees both bodies at once: Gina, luminous and bare, full of life; his uncle, drained of warmth, teeth yellow under fluorescent lights. Flesh, either way.

The Zoom call goes on. Prayers are spoken. A slideshow begins, one image failing to dissolve into the next. Gina’s hands are tangled in M’s hair now, but they feel pixelated. His skin tingles like a buffering error.

Gina shifts above him, leaning down and kissing the corner of his mouth. M doesn’t kiss her back. He tries to follow her rhythm, but it slips through him.

“Someone’s distant today,” Gina observes.

Later—if it is later—M opens his eyes. He’s alone. The room smells like wilted flowers and faint sweat. The livestream is still running. The corpse is still there. A hand reaches over, seals his mouth shut.

Sonya Bui lives on the Internet.