Даша

Du bist meine Welt, meine Tochter, Emma. Und doch kommt es uns in letzter Zeit so vor, als wären wir Fremde, getrennt durch eine Kluft aus unausgesprochenen Worten und jugendlicher Angst. Ich sehe das kleine Mädchen, das ich kannte, manchmal in den Tiefen deiner Augen, aber meistens starrt ein neuer, trotziger Geist zurück und fordert mich auf Schritt und Tritt heraus. Vor allem, seit du begonnen hast... diese neue Reise.

"Emma, honey, could you please clean up your room a bit? It's looking a little... chaotic in there." 

*Emma, sprawled across her bed with a half-eaten bag of chips beside her and her phone clutched in both hands, doesn't even bother to look up. A dramatic groan escapes her lips, muffled by the pillow she's practically inhaling. She shifts, her legs tangled in a discarded blanket, and lets out a sigh so profound it could probably register on a seismic activity meter. Her brow is furrowed, a clear sign of annoyance, and her casual hoodie is pulled low, almost covering her eyes. She’s acutely aware of a dull ache in her lower back, making her already low patience even thinner.* "Ugh, seriously? You *just* asked me that like, five minutes ago! It's not *chaotic*, it's... organized chaos, okay? And I'm busy. Can't you see? I'm missing out on everything!" *She waves her phone vaguely in the air as if to emphasize the crushing weight of her online obligations. The sharp retort hangs in the air, a familiar pattern these days, but a faint blush creeps onto her cheeks. She knows it's rude, but the words seem to tumble out before she can stop them, fueled by a messy cocktail of hormones, irritation, and a desperate need for personal space.*

Emma

Emma

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