A Gentle Collision

Chapter 1

Freen’s eyes snapped open at the sound of her alarm. The faint red digits glowed in the darkness, announcing it was 5:30 AM. She didn’t move immediately, lying there as if the thin blanket could shield her from the day ahead. Her body ached—not from exertion, but from the constant weight of anxiety that never left her.

The knock on her door was sharp and deliberate, shattering the fragile morning silence.

“Freen,” her father’s voice called, cold and devoid of patience. “Get up. Now.”

“I’m awake,” she answered quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Then stop lying there like a corpse and get to work.”

The heavy sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, but the tension lingered like a second presence in the room. Freen threw the blanket off and swung her legs over the side of the bed, careful not to make too much noise. Every movement in this house was calculated, a cautious dance to avoid setting him off.

She glanced at the small mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. Her face stared back at her, pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes from another restless night. She didn’t bother fixing her hair beyond tying it back into a tight ponytail. Appearance mattered, but efficiency mattered more in her father’s world.

The kitchen was dim, the weak light from the streetlamp outside casting shadows across the counters. She didn’t bother turning on the overhead light; her father had scolded her once for “wasting electricity.” Instead, she moved by memory, pulling out the ingredients for breakfast.

Rice, eggs, vegetables, and tofu—her father’s usual meal. She worked quickly, her hands trembling as she sliced the vegetables. Each piece had to be perfect, uniform in size, or he’d throw it back at her. She had learned that the hard way.

Her stomach twisted as she worked, the familiar gnawing anxiety creeping in. He would wake up soon, and if anything wasn’t perfect, there would be consequences. Freen had long stopped hoping for praise or even neutrality. She only hoped to avoid his anger.

By 6:00 AM, the table was set, the food steaming gently in the center. She heard his heavy footsteps descending the stairs and instinctively straightened her posture, her hands clasped in front of her.

Her father entered the kitchen with the same expression he always wore—hard and unforgiving. His suit was perfectly pressed, his tie impeccably knotted, and yet he seemed to carry an aura of dissatisfaction wherever he went.

“Is it ready?” he asked without looking at her.

“Yes, Father.”

He sat down and began eating. Freen stood off to the side, her hands trembling behind her back. She didn’t dare sit until he invited her, which he never did.

For a few minutes, there was silence except for the sound of his fork scraping against the plate. Freen held her breath, hoping—praying—that everything was to his liking.

But then he stopped.

“What is this?” he asked, holding up a piece of tofu with his fork.

“It’s tofu, Father,” she said cautiously.

“It’s burnt.”

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Did I ask for your excuses?” he snapped, throwing the piece back onto the plate. “You can’t even cook properly. What good are you if you can’t handle the simplest tasks?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“You’re always sorry,” he muttered, standing up abruptly. “Clean this mess up. And don’t expect me to eat this garbage again.”

He grabbed his briefcase and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving his plate untouched. The door slammed behind him, making the windows rattle.

Freen stood there for a long moment, her hands gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white. Her throat burned, but she refused to cry. Not here. Not now.

She cleaned up the table methodically, scraping the untouched food into the trash. The waste made her stomach turn, but there was no point in saving it. Her father wouldn’t touch leftovers.

The rest of the morning was a blur of chores. She scrubbed the floors until her knees ached, dusted every surface twice, and ironed her father’s clothes for the next day. The house was spotless, but it still felt suffocating.

By noon, the sun was blazing outside, but the house remained cold. Freen stepped into the backyard with the laundry basket, grateful for even a moment of fresh air. She hung the clothes with care, making sure each piece was perfectly aligned.

A shout from the neighbor’s yard caught her attention. She turned her head slightly, watching as the children next door played tag in the grass. Their laughter rang out, light and carefree, and something inside Freen twisted painfully.

What would it feel like to laugh like that? To exist without fear of being scolded for every misstep?

She turned away before the ache in her chest could grow any worse.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but oppressive. Freen moved mechanically through her tasks, her mind numb. By the time the clock struck four, her body felt heavy with exhaustion, but there was no time to rest. Her father would return soon, and the cycle would begin again.

As she folded the last of the laundry, a single thought lingered in her mind.

Was this it? Was this all her life would ever be?

Freen shook her head, banishing the thought as quickly as it came. There was no room for dreaming in this house.