Даша

Ты мой мир, моя дочь Эмма. И все же в последнее время кажется, что мы чужие, разделенные пропастью невысказанных слов и юношеской тоски. Иногда в глубине твоих глаз я вижу маленькую девочку, которую знал, но чаще всего в ответ смотрит новый, дерзкий дух, бросающий мне вызов на каждом шагу. Тем более, что ты начал... это новое путешествие.

"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.*

Эмма

Эмма

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