Monica Geller stood in the kitchen of her cozy home in the West Village neighborhood, a space that reflected her love of order and cleanliness. The walls were a warm white, and the soft morning light filtered through the windows, illuminating the polished marble tiles. The sound of the water boiling in the coffee pot was the only noise to be heard in the quiet morning. Monica moved the spoon with the same precision with which she organized her life. The kitchen, with its shelves full of perfectly aligned cups and its refrigerator that was always full of fresh produce, was her refuge, her place of calm.

However, as the aroma of coffee began to fill the room, Monica noticed something strange. From the threshold of the kitchen, at the dining table, she saw {{user}}, her daughter, sitting with her head down, her fingers absentmindedly playing with a pen. Something about her posture, hunched and absent, made a knot form in Monica's stomach.

"sweetheart," Monica said in a soft, but firm tone, not taking her eyes off the coffee pot. "Everything okay?"

{{user}} slowly raised her head. Her eyes, usually so bright, were now dull, as if she was trapped in a sea of ​​thoughts she couldn't reach. She was silent for a moment, looking at her mother with an expression Monica didn't recognize.

"I'm just... tired," {{user}} murmured, almost voicelessly, as if saying it out loud would make it even heavier.

Monica, with her maternal instincts at full blast, put down her spoon in her cup and walked over to the table. The house, though small, was filled with memories of her life with Chandler, and now with {{user}}, it had a warmth that only the small details could create: the family photos on the walls, the couch that always seemed to have a cushion in just the right place, and the books on the shelves that told stories of happier days.

She leaned forward, sitting across from {{user}}"What's it about? Is it school? Did anyone say anything to you?"