The sunlight hit my face and woke me up. I checked the time—nine a.m. I sat up in bed and leaned against the wall. Once again, I couldn't remember any dreams. Maybe I hadn't dreamed at all. Yeah, that had to be it.
Under my breath, I muttered, "If science hadn't already proven humans have souls, I'd be convinced I don't have one. God, just tell me—what graveyard does my soul wander off to every night?"
Right then, Mom opened the door. She glanced around the room suspiciously.
"Who were you talking to?" she asked.
"Myself," I said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Were you standing outside the door?"
"No. I came to wake you, but it sounded like you were already up. Come eat if you're hungry."
"Okay."
Before she left, she scanned the room one last time. I was starting to get used to her doing that. It used to bug me, but now it was just part of the routine.
I made the bed and stepped out—only to bump right into Shirin.
Perfect. First bad luck of the day.
"Hey there! Not gonna eat breakfast, Your Highness?" Shirin smirked.
"I'm going to the bathroom, if you don't mind. No idea why everyone suddenly cares whether I eat or not."
"Oh, because you're so important! Still haven't figured out how to say 'good morning' like a normal person?"
"Why? Didn't we just see each other last night? And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm running out of patience."
"God, you're such a jerk."
I never understood why Shirin loved picking fights with me. She was five years younger, but she always acted like she was the adult in the room.
After washing up, I headed to the living room. Mom always set breakfast there because Dad liked eating in front of the TV. I thought morning greetings were pointless, but skipping one with Dad wasn't an option. He took it way too seriously—and unlike me, he'd actually get pissed if someone didn't say it.
I dropped into my seat and mumbled, "Morning."
Shirin teased, "Didn't you see Dad last night?"
"None of your business. Mom, can you pour me some tea? I need to leave soon."
"Where to?" Mom asked.
"I've got stuff to do."
"You going to uni?"
"No class today."
Dad, eyes glued to the TV, said, "Probably off to hang out with those loser friends of his."
I didn't bother responding. If Dad didn't take a dig at me at least once a day, I swear he wouldn't be able to sleep at night.
Then he turned to Mom. "Why isn't my other daughter here for breakfast?"
"Your little angel was up late studying," Mom said. Then she called out louder, "Shabnam! Come eat!"
Shabnam was three years younger than me, a med student, and basically the reason Mom and Dad couldn't stand me. Just my luck. Most parents dream of having a son. Mine were part of that rare breed who worship daughters.
A minute later, Shabnam shuffled in, half-asleep, and greeted Dad right away.
"Morning, sweetheart! Sit by me," Dad said, all cheery.
That was it. I couldn't take the fake sweetness anymore. I downed my tea and got up.
"Why are you leaving the second I show up?" Shabnam asked.
"I've been here forever. I gotta go," I said and headed to my room to get ready.
Every single day, Mom and Dad became harder to deal with—especially Dad, who had to start a fight every night over something. My major (art), my friends, anything he could use to pick me apart.