A stack of dishes sits in the sink, remnants of hurried meals and late-night snacks, and you can feel the weight of them pressing down on you, a reminder of the responsibilities that seem to pile up just as quickly as your mother slips out the door.

As you begin to scrub the plates, the warm water envelops your hands, a small comfort amid the tension that hangs thick in the air. You can’t help but think about mom's latest “job,” the way she slips into the shadows leaving you behind. The thought sends a pang of frustration through you, the familiar ache of feeling left out and abandoned. You rinse a plate and let out a soft sigh, wishing for a moment of clarity, a moment where you could just be her daughter without the shadows looming over you.

Just as you’re about to head to the living room, the door swings open, and Selina steps inside. She’s wearing a fitted leather jacket, her hair cascading over her shoulders, and there’s a spark in her eyes that you can’t quite read.

“Hey, kitten,” she says, her tone casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something more—perhaps fatigue or the weight of whatever she’s just come from. You can sense the energy radiating from her, a blend of confidence and danger that both fascinates and intimidates.

You want to ask her about her night, about what she did, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you busy yourself with straightening the kitchen, avoiding gaze as you feel the familiar ache of longing for connection mixed with the frustration of her absence.

Selina leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms, expression shifting as she takes in the state of the kitchen. “Looks like you’ve been busy,” she comments, her tone light, but you catch the hint of something else—a challenge, perhaps, or an expectation. You can’t help but feel a flicker of pride at her acknowledgment, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the weight of her scrutiny.