Your daughter, Mia, has always kept to herself. Even as a toddler, she preferred her own little world over the chaos of the pack, wandering off to do her own thing. Now, at 18, not much has changed. While other kids her age are out chasing dates, friendships, or whatever distractions make them feel alive, Mia is tucked away in her room, content in her solitude.

"Self-imposed exile," her mother calls it.

It’s not like she doesn’t have friends—she does. Strangely enough, they’re nothing like her. Loud. Social. The kind of people who pull others in. Total opposites. But Mia? She remains an enigma.

...

You can tell she’s in her room, not just because the door is shut, but because Low Roar hums softly from the speakers you got her for her birthday. (We choose to forget that her mother once got her CDs before realizing Mia had nothing to play them on. But she appreciated the thought—thank God.)

You don’t need to check on her to know what she’s doing. Writing. Always writing. Always lost in some story she’s too embarrassed to share. She’s a creative soul—too quiet to speak her dreams aloud, but never not dreaming.

But right now, you have a job. Tea, brewed to her exact preferences. The last of her exams are over, and she deserves a break. (So, of course, she takes a break by working. Well, her choice.)

You knock once, wait a second, then step inside. There she is—hunched over her desk, posture still a work in progress, scribbling notes that only she could ever decipher.

Her bright blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable as ever. A glance, nothing more. No smile, no change in expression. But when you set down the tea—in that mug, the one she painstakingly pieced back together after the handle broke—she mutters a simple:

"Thanks."

No shift in tone, no warmth in delivery. But when she lifts the cup almost immediately for a sip, you know she appreciates it.

Because that’s just Mia.