(Flashback – Mira, age 13)
The kitchen light flickered sometimes, but neither of them ever got around to fixing it.
Mira stood on a stool in front of the sink, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, fingers cold from rinsing rice. The water turned milky-white, and she leaned in to swirl it a few more times just to hear the soft swoosh of the grains.
Behind her, the window had fogged slightly from the steam on the stove. It smelled faintly of ginger and soy—comfort smells. Home smells.
"Twice," her mother said gently, passing by the doorway with a laundry basket in her arms. "Always rinse it twice, remember?"
"I did already," Mira called back.
"Mm-hmm."
Mira smiled faintly. That mm-hmm always meant her mom didn't believe her but wasn't in the mood to argue.
A folded dish towel lay beside the stove, embroidered with tiny, uneven stitches Mira had done when she was eight. Her mom still used it. Mira didn't know if it was on purpose or just habit, but seeing it there still made something in her chest sit up straighter.
They weren't perfect, but they were close.
After dinner, her mom curled up on the couch with a blanket and her endless stack of documents from the office. Mira sat at the table with her sketchbook, doodling out a dream café she would one day open: mismatched chairs, bright colors, people laughing with crumbs on their shirts.
"You'll need a business license for that," her mom said without looking up.
"I know," Mira replied automatically. Then, after a pause, "Wait, really?"
Her mother chuckled. "Yes, really. You think you can just open a place and start handing out coffee without paperwork?"
Mira pouted. "That ruins the fantasy."
"Reality ruins all fantasies, Mira," her mom said, flipping a page. "But it also pays the rent. So."
Mira went quiet for a second. Her pencil hovered above the paper.
"Do you like your job?" she asked suddenly.
Her mom didn't answer right away.
Then, quietly, "I like feeding you. That's what matters."
It wasn't the answer Mira expected. Or maybe it was, and she just didn't want it.
"…I want something different," Mira murmured.
That made her mother look up.
Her expression softened—tired, yes, but there was pride in her eyes too. "Good," she said. "That's how you make something better than what came before you."
Mira held onto that sentence for a long time.
But there were other moments, too.
Moments where the pride faltered.
Where Mira would come home with a B on a test and her mother would raise a brow and say, "Didn't you study?" Not cruel. Not loud. Just… disappointed. Like Mira had missed an obvious step.
Where Mira would mention wanting to try a school club—art, theater, even the gardening club once—and her mom would respond with, "Don't distract yourself with too many things. You're smart. Use it."
Use it.
That phrase came up a lot.
Use it to get a scholarship. Use it to get ahead. Use it to make sure you don't end up like me.
Mira didn't understand the weight in those words when she was thirteen. She only knew that some days, her mom's voice made her feel taller, braver, seen—
And other days, it made her feel like she was already behind. Like every minute she spent not succeeding was time wasted.
Still, they had their rituals.
Late-night convenience store runs when her mom couldn't sleep. Warm tea with lemon when Mira had a cold. Movie nights with old rom-coms and Mira pretending she wasn't crying at the airport reunion scenes.
"You're too soft for this world," her mom would joke, nudging her.
"No, you're just heartless," Mira would reply.
But secretly, she thought: I hope I don't lose this. I hope we don't drift.
She didn't know how that drift would happen.
-
(Mira, age 16)
The rain was soft that afternoon.
Not heavy—just a quiet drizzle that painted the glass windows in Mira's childhood bedroom with streaks of silver. She was sixteen. Still too young to understand how quiet moments could carry the weight of something unsaid, and too old to pretend she didn't notice when her mother started drifting.
Back then, Mira used to stay up late at her desk, sketching on printer paper and magazine scraps, building imaginary cafés, branding fictional cookie lines, designing websites that would never exist. Sometimes her mom would pass by and peek in, always with the same half-smile, always with the same tired eyes.
"You should be sleeping," her mother would say.
"I'm working," Mira would answer, with all the stubborn pride of a teenager trying to define herself.
And her mother—Helena Solace—would pause at the doorway. Sometimes she'd come in and press a hand to Mira's hair, careful, like she didn't want to disturb the structure of her daughter's dreams. But there was always something distant in the gesture. Something weighted.
"You can't draw your way out of the world, you know," Helena said once, softly.
Mira didn't understand what that meant back then. Not really. She only heard the judgment in it. The disapproval. Another reminder that her mother had spent her life in labs and spreadsheets, while Mira filled notebooks with pastel lettering and café slogans no one asked for.
"You don't get it," Mira muttered under her breath.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. "Get what?"
"This," Mira gestured at the papers on her desk. "Me. What I want."
"I understand more than you think," Helena replied. But her voice was thin. Distant. Like someone who wanted to mean it, but didn't know how.
That was their pattern—close, but never quite meeting in the middle.
Helena used to braid Mira's hair for school when she was younger. Used to sneak sweet tofu in her lunchbox because she knew Mira liked the texture. Used to sit beside her during thunderstorms and explain the science of lightning strikes while Mira curled under the blanket pretending not to be scared.
But as Mira grew, the soft gestures faded.
Her mother started working later hours. Stopped sitting beside her. Stopped asking about school, about friends. Started assuming Mira would be fine, would adjust, would keep herself together.
Because Mira was "strong."
Because Mira was "independent."
Because Mira didn't cry when she failed a test or lost a friend.
So of course she was fine.
Even when she wasn't.
It wasn't a single fight that led to Mira running away.
It was a slow build—months of not being heard. Years of being smiled at and nodded toward but never listened to.
-
(Mira, age 18)
One evening, just after her first semester in college had started, Mira came home late from a freelance gig. She had taken a minor commission helping a local ramen shop redo their menus and window signage. It wasn't glamorous, but she was proud.
She showed her mom the designs, buzzing with energy. "It's not final, but the owner loved it. He said it made the place feel warmer."
Her mom barely looked up from her laptop.
"Mira, you're supposed to be focusing on school."
"I am. I just—this is something I'm good at."
"You're supposed to be studying business management," her mom replied. "Not… colors and fonts."
Mira laughed, at first. "It's called branding, Mom. It's literally what sells things now."
But Helena's voice was sharp. "Don't be flippant. You're wasting your time."
And that was it.
That was the moment something snapped.
Wasting your time.
It echoed in Mira's head for days.
She skipped classes. Spent more time helping small stores polish their social media and branding for under-the-table cash. Designed flyers. Built menu mockups. Sat in cafés for hours just people-watching and scribbling down ideas.
And then—one night—she didn't go home.
She packed a bag, took her laptop, and left a note:
"I'll come back when I'm someone you can respect."
Her mother found her a week later, sleeping on a friend's futon.
The confrontation was quiet—but vicious.
"You think running away makes you grown up?" Helena had said.
"No," Mira answered. "But staying felt worse."
"You're my daughter."
"Then why don't you ever listen to me?"
And her mother had nothing to say to that.
She left without another word.
-
Back in the present, Mira leaned against the café fridge, her hands cold from stacking milk cartons, her face flushed from too much pretending.
She didn't know what made that memory surface. Maybe it was the tea someone ordered that smelled too much like lemon and ginger. Maybe it was the way her coworker had said, "You're good at this. Why not go full-time?" and something in her had recoiled without knowing why.
She wasn't sure what "full-time" meant for someone who still didn't know where she wanted to be.
She still heard her mother's voice sometimes.
Use it. Make something better. Be someone better.
It used to sound like love.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
Mira stirred her café latte absentmindedly, watching the soft swirl of milk foam vanish into the espresso.
The café around her buzzed with customers activity. Baristas laughed behind the counter. The scent of cinnamon and steamed milk hung thick in the air.
Everything around her had changed.
But sometimes, in moments like these, she still felt like that girl curled up on a stranger's floor, wondering if walking away had been brave or just foolish.
She wasn't sure if her mother ever forgave her.
She wasn't sure she forgave her mother, either.
Some days, the guilt settled like dust—thin and ignorable.
Other days, like today, it weighed heavy.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Hikari:
Don't forget, I'm picking up some tofu on the way home. Don't eat junk until I get there.
Mira huffed a small laugh through her nose.
Bossy.
But she smiled anyway.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
She started typing,Thanks. You're the only person keeping me from completely falling apart.
Then paused.
Deleted it.
She tried again,Appreciate you. You didn't have to take care of me, but you do. And I notice.
Deleted that, too.
Eventually, she settled on:No promises. But I'll wait for tofu.
Simple. Light. Easier to send.
She hit "send" before she could second-guess it.
"Hey," one of her coworkers called from behind the counter. "How do you always look so chill? You're like—unshakeable."
Mira turned, raising an eyebrow. "You think this is me chill?"
The coworker laughed, waving her off. "Seriously. You just have that whole 'together adult' vibe. I envy it."
Mira smiled.
That same practiced smile.
Polished.
Safe.
"Guess I'm better at pretending than I thought," she said, grabbing her apron.
The coworker didn't catch the weight in her voice.
But Mira felt it settle in her ribs as she moved back behind the counter.
She didn't have all the answers.
She didn't have her mother's approval.
She didn't even know if she'd ever go back to college.
But for now…
She was still here.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.