The sound of cutlery tapping against porcelain filled the silent dining room. Liana sat straight-backed at the polished table, eyes down, hands folded neatly in her lap. The smell of grilled vegetables and perfectly steamed rice drifted up from her plate, untouched.
"Eat," her mother said without looking up.
Liana obeyed, lifting her fork as quietly as she could. Her father flipped through the newspaper across the table, glasses perched low on his nose, eyes scanning for headlines. No music played. No phones buzzed. Just the sound of breathing and order and quiet.
That was how every dinner went. Every morning too. Structure. Routine. Silence.
She could count on one hand how many times her parents had laughed out loud. Love, in their house, was not something you saw. It was rules and responsibility. Respect. Discipline. She never questioned it—not out loud, anyway.
As soon as dinner ended, she helped clear the table, dried the plates, and returned to her room, a small space of pastel walls and careful arrangement. Her books sat stacked on her desk in perfect rows. Her phone lay charging, monitored with an app her father installed to "keep her safe." Most of her apps were locked. Messages were checked. Calls limited. Everything filtered.
She sat on her bed and stared out the window. The sky outside was streaked with pink and orange, dusk bleeding into night. Somewhere out there, people her age were at parties, watching movies, sneaking out with friends.
Liana had never even stepped out after sunset.
Never had a sleepover.
Never kissed anyone.
Never even been to a mall without adult supervision.
Her life was clean, safe, and so very small.
A knock came, quick and impatient. The door creaked open before she could answer.
Zara leaned in, grinning wide. "You look like a nun in a Netflix prison doc," she said.
Liana laughed softly. "That's the look I'm going for."
Zara stepped inside and flopped onto the bed. Her long curls were messy, and her shoes were dirty from wherever she'd run in from. Zara's world was chaos and color and laughter. She could go anywhere, say anything. Her parents were relaxed, trusting. Free.
"You know," Zara said, looking at her with a mock-serious expression, "You're eighteen now. That's grown. Like, legally allowed to make your own decisions."
"Not in this house," Liana said.
Zara's eyes narrowed. "You need to breathe, Li. One day, I swear, I'm dragging you out if I have to stuff you in my trunk."
Liana smiled, but it faded quickly. She wanted to say I wish you would.
She wanted to ask what it felt like to be kissed, to make mistakes, to live.
Instead, she just said, "My mom checks the cameras."
Zara sighed and stared at the ceiling. "One day," she whispered, "you're going to look back and hate how much you missed."
Liana said nothing.
But deep down, a flicker of fear stirred.
What if that day had already started?