STELLA

The ride home is quiet, except for the faint clicking of Papa’s pen as he signs something on his tablet.

I lean my head against the cold glass, watching the blur of streetlights streak by.

“You could at least pretend to look miserable,” he says without looking up.

“I thought I was,” I reply. “Guess I need to work on my performance.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile—Papa doesn’t do those—but something dangerously close. “You’ll adjust”. I don't say anything, ...