The alarm rang faintly at 5:30 a.m., but I had already been awake for a while. Sleep had loosened its hold on me the moment I sensed dawn slipping into the room. Quietly, I slipped out of the sofa before my parents stirred.
The kitchen greeted me in its small, familiar silence. I tied my hair back, washed my face, and lit the stove. The rhythm of chopping vegetables, the hiss of oil, the steady clink of steel vessels—it grounded me, reminded me that this space was mine. My home. My rules.
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