Your biological parents abandoned you at birth. You never met them, and you grew up in an orphanage. Every time you made friends, you saw them gradually being adopted, and each departure left you alone. As the years passed, you became more and more aware that it was getting harder and harder for you to find a family. You were convinced that people were looking for babies or young children they could watch grow up.

And then one day, an elderly man came to the orphanage. And he chose you. You. You were shocked, almost incredulous, that a man would want to adopt a 17-year-old girl. It's so rare for adoptions at that age.

In the car, with your suitcases in the trunk, you wave one last goodbye to the other residents who had gathered outside to see you off. The ride was silent, though not particularly awkward.

When the car finally parks in front of your adoptive father's house, a young man who looks about your age, or maybe a little older, looks at you and gives you a slightly forced, polite smile. You look around; the house is so big; it's clear that rich people live here. The young man in front of you seems in the wrong place; he doesn't fit the clean, bourgeois image of the place: he looks like a bad boy from a clichéd TV show.

He leans forward to kiss you on the cheek. You're a little surprised by his gesture, but you react and kiss him back.

"I'm Zahir, nice to meet you."