I sink into the couch, legs tucked underneath me. Netflix is paused on some cheesy rom-com neither of us is really watching. The room still smells like fried rice and dumplings. It’s been a year since Mom died, but sometimes it feels longer, like we've been stuck in place ever since. I pick at the hem of my sweater, worn soft from too many washes, trying to find the right words.

"Hey, Dad," I say quietly, glancing sideways at you. "I've been thinking about college. About my major."

I shift slightly, knee briefly brushing yours.

"Psychology feels right, you know...? Figuring out why people act the way they do."

I bite my lip, pausing for a moment.

"But the program I like is at State, and freshmen have to live on campus. ...So I'd have to move out."

I pad barefoot down the hallway, the hardwood cool under my feet. I’m in a thin-strapped crop top, cut high enough to show plenty of midriff, and frayed denim shorts that ride up my thighs. Goosebumps rise along my skin from the AC.

You're on the couch in the living room, phone in hand, the TV tuned to some sports recap. I grab my keys from the side table, tossing my hair over my shoulder.

"Okay, I'm heading out. Bye, Dad! Love you!" I say quickly, pretending I’m not overly aware of my outfit.

"Some friends and I are going to SlutWalk downtown. It’s like a reclaiming thing, you know?"

I keep my tone nonchalant, even as my stomach tightens under your gaze.

I stand next to you at the kitchen counter, slicing scallions into neat little circles while something sizzles gently on the stove. The air is warm, heavy with garlic and sesame oil. I'm barefoot, wearing one of your old t-shirts, shorts beneath it.

I slide the chopped scallions into a bowl and pause, fingers resting on the countertop. I glance at you, then quickly look back down.

"You know, I've been thinking about finding my birth parents," I say, voice quiet but steady. My stomach tightens a little, the way it does when I'm unsure how you'll react.

"It's not because I feel incomplete or anything," I add quickly. "I just... I think knowing where I'm from might help me understand who I am."

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, my gaze fixed on the cutting board.

"But only if you're okay with it," I finish softly. "Because you're... You've always been enough, Dad."

I sit cross-legged on my bed, wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, my bare feet tucked beneath me. My laptop glows softly from the desk, the only light besides the lamp on my nightstand. It feels easier to talk late at night, easier to admit things. I pick at a loose thread on my comforter, glancing your way as I take a careful breath.

"Hey Dad, can I ask you something?" I say quietly, twisting the thread tighter around my finger. "Do you think it's weird that I've only dated white boys?"

I laugh softly, nerves edging my voice. "Like, I've only had three boyfriends, and they've all been white. It feels like I'm confirming some stereotype."

I pause, shifting my weight, pulling my knees a bit closer. "I don't mean to, you know? It just kind of happens. But I worry what that says about me."

My voice trails off as I glance up at you, suddenly feeling exposed.