AGE NINETEEN

At seven on a quiet Sunday morning, the first strands of sunlight slipped through the floor-to-ceiling linen curtains, casting pale streaks across the deep navy walls of the villa. The room was spacious without feeling extravagant, every corner arranged with quiet precision rather than display. A neatly made bed occupied the center, its crisp sheets barely disturbed as their owner rose. Her bare feet met the softness of a Persian rug before she crossed the polished wooden floor and disappeared behind the rosewood bathroom door. Cool marble, brushed steel, a freestanding bathtub, and a wide mirror reflected the muted elegance of the space. The steady sound of running water broke the silence. Standing before the mirror with a toothbrush in hand, she stared at her own reflection for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable—calm, distant, yet quietly observant. Amaya Sen.

Freshened up, Amaya stepped back into her room, now illuminated by the mellow morning light. The study desk stood exactly as she’d left it the previous night—a MacBook, a notebook, a neatly aligned pen, and a simple study lamp. Above it hung a collection of framed certificates recognizing years of academic excellence, their presence understated, as though they belonged to the room more than they belonged to her. Without thinking, she straightened a pen that was already almost perfectly aligned before opening the top drawer of her desk. Her hand lingered over something hidden inside. For the briefest moment, the composure in her eyes softened. She quietly closed the drawer, drew a slow breath, picked up her phone, and glanced at the framed photograph resting on the bedside table—herself standing between her parents, all three smiling at a moment time had long since carried away. After a silent pause, she turned, opened the bedroom door, and made her way downstairs, where the faint clatter of utensils and the aroma of breakfast hinted that someone was already waiting for her.

The faint aroma of butter lingered in the dining room as Amaya pulled out a chair and settled into her usual seat without a word. A moment later, her grandmother walked in from the kitchen, placing a plate of freshly made pancakes in front of her, followed by a tall glass of strawberry milkshake. Amaya lowered her eyes to the breakfast, then slowly lifted them to look at her grandmother, her blank expression carrying just enough disbelief to make the older woman sigh. “Don’t look at me like I’ve committed a crime,” her grandmother muttered, setting the syrup bottle on the table. “It’s Sunday. Normal people enjoy pancakes on Sundays.” Amaya’s gaze shifted from the pancakes to the milkshake before returning to her grandmother. After a brief silence, she spoke. “...Don’t you have diabetes?” Her grandmother paused, pursed her lips, and replied with complete confidence, “They’re sugar-free.” Amaya said nothing. She simply continued looking at her. The silence stretched just long enough for her grandmother to clear her throat and reluctantly add, “...Mostly.”

Amaya stared at the plate for another moment before quietly rising from her chair. Without a word, she picked up the bowl of remaining pancake batter and placed it in the refrigerator, earning a puzzled look from her grandmother. She opened a cupboard, took out a small saucepan, spooned in the leftover cooked rice, added water, and placed it over a low flame. The spoon moved in slow, unhurried circles as the rice softened into a light porridge with a pinch of salt. Behind her came a familiar sigh. “One pancake won’t kill me,” her grandmother protested. Amaya didn’t reply. She switched off the stove, poured the warm porridge into a bowl, and placed it in front of her grandmother before quietly sliding the plate of pancakes back toward herself.

“Now tell me,” her grandmother said, watching her closely, “does anyone at your university know you can actually speak?” Amaya picked up her fork, cut a small piece of the pancake, and answered without looking up. “...Only when they ask sensible questions.” Her grandmother clicked her tongue in annoyance. “One day, you’ll answer me with a full sentence.” Amaya gently nudged the bowl a little closer to her. “Eat.” The older woman looked down at the porridge before her gaze drifted to the pancakes in front of Amaya. “And you’re eating those?” Amaya gave a small nod. “I don’t waste food.” She took another bite despite the sweetness she disliked, then added calmly, “Don’t make sweet breakfasts for me anymore.” Her grandmother muttered something under her breath and reluctantly picked up the spoon, knowing there was little point arguing once Amaya had already made up her mind.

Her grandmother watched her for a moment before taking a spoonful of porridge. “So,” she began, “how was your first week at university?” Amaya swallowed the last bite of pancake before answering. “Fine.” Her grandmother sighed. “That’s all?” Amaya gave a small nod. “That’s all.”

A few seconds of silence passed before her grandmother tried again. “Did you meet any of your high school friends there?” Amaya shook her head. “No.” “Did you make any new friends?” Another quiet pause followed. “Not really.” Her grandmother pinched the bridge of her nose. “Amaya, you do realize university isn’t just for attending lectures and coming home, right?” “I know.” “Then?” Amaya reached for her glass of water, took an unhurried sip, and replied, “...I didn’t need to.” Her grandmother leaned back in her chair with a defeated sigh. “One of these days, you’re going to give me a headache.” “You already have diabetes,” Amaya said matter-of-factly. “A headache would just complete the collection.” Her grandmother stared at her in disbelief before letting out an exasperated groan. “See? You can be funny. You just choose to save it for attacking me.”

Her grandmother fell silent for a while, absentmindedly stirring the porridge with her spoon. After a moment, her eyes softened. “Do you know what comes in three days?”

Amaya looked up. “Thursday.”

Her grandmother gave her a long look.

A brief pause.

“...Your birthday,” Amaya corrected herself, as though she’d known all along.

“I knew my granddaughter wouldn’t forget,” her grandmother said, a smile finding its way onto her face.

The smile faded just as quietly.

“Do you think... they’ll come this time? Your parents, I mean.”

Amaya didn’t answer.

Her grandmother lowered her eyes to the bowl in front of her and let out a weary sigh.

“I don’t ask for much anymore,” she murmured. “But... before I die, I’d like to see my son and daughter-in-law sitting at this table with us once.”

The silence that followed was heavier than either of them wanted.

Amaya rose from her chair and carried her empty plate to the sink. She stood there for a second before speaking, her back still turned.

“...Am I not enough for your birthday?”

Her grandmother looked up immediately.

“I’ll be here,” Amaya continued, her voice calm, almost scolding. “So don’t wait for people who don’t know how to stay.”

For a moment, her grandmother couldn’t find the words.

Amaya picked up her bag from the counter.

“I have a project to finish.”

She paused near the staircase without turning around.

“...Being emotional doesn’t suit you.”

With that, she walked upstairs.

Her grandmother watched until she disappeared from sight before shaking her head with a helpless smile.

“This brat...” she muttered fondly. “...She’ll never change.”

Amaya closed the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it for a brief moment before walking over to the bed. She let out a quiet sigh and sat on the edge of the mattress, her mind lingering on the conversation downstairs. After a few seconds, she reached for her phone and unlocked it. Almost instinctively, her thumb drifted to a familiar contact.

Dad.

It lingered there for a long moment.

She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the call button before letting out a quiet breath and locking the phone instead. Some conversations were easier to imagine than to have.

The screen lit up again almost immediately.

Aria Lim Calling...

For the first time that morning, something in Amaya’s expression shifted. The corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly before she even realized it herself. Aria had been by her side for as long as she could remember. Their fathers had become business partners years ago, bringing the two families together, but somewhere between childhood afternoons and countless shared memories, the friendship had become something entirely their own. She was the only person who had never mistaken Amaya’s silence for indifference, and perhaps the only one who never expected her to become someone she wasn’t.

Amaya answered the call.