A seat at the table

Oishii

The sound of rhythmic, aggressive chopping guides me down the hallway.When I turn the corner into the kitchen, the sight that greets me is nothing short of a public safety hazard.

Chef who looks less like a culinary expert and more like a model pulled from a Tokyo streetwear editorial—is calmly shredding cucumbers. True is perched directly on the marble island counter, leaning forward so far she's practically in his cutting board.

One of her legs is swinging idly, her fingers twirling a stray lock of hair while she aggressively over-pronounces the word "Oishii."the knife doesn't miss a beat.

He looks polite, incredibly professional, and entirely hostage.True catches my eye as I walk past the threshold. She immediately gestures wildly with her eyebrows, a desperate silent plea for me to either back her up or leave the room.

I don't say a word. I simply raise my right hand, give her a solid, slow thumbs-up of absolute betrayal, and keep walking."Leah!" she hissed behind me. "Don't you dare—"The heavy oak door swings shut, cutting her off, and the immediate silence of the house wraps around me.Walking through these hallways always feels a bit like navigating a very expensive museum.

Everything is minimalist, symmetrical, and aggressively beige. The marble floors seem to swallow the sound of my footsteps, sending a faint, hollow echo bouncing off the high ceilings.

It's a beautiful house, but it's a house that feels like it's constantly holding its breath.I climb the stairs and push open the door to my old bedroom—the one I lived in before I finally bought my own place.

Stepping inside is like breaching a portal to a different universe. This room is the only space in the entire estate that my mother's interior decorator wasn't allowed to touch.

A dusty, vibrant teal accent wall stares back at me. A stack of old, colorful art magazines sits on the corner of a mustard-yellow armchair, and a gallery wall of chaotic, uncurated polaroids still hangs beside the window.It's messy, not literally messy, like my mom would ever allow that but it's inviting, It's loud.

It still looks different from the aesthetic of the house but still feels like it belongs in it

It's the only room in this house that doesn't feel depressing.I close the door, shutting out the rest of the echo, and slide down onto the edge of the made bed. The quiet in here isn't suffocating; it's familiar.My phone vibrates in my palm, a reminder of the unanswered question waiting on the screen.

What do you actually do all day?

I stare at the blinking cursor. My finger hovers over the glass. I could tell him I'm an influencer, but that word always carries a weight I don't feel like explaining to a man who handles concrete and blueprints.

I tap out a quick, unbothered response:I do marketing.I hit send before I can overthink it. It isn't a lie—companies pay me to put their brands in front of hundreds of thousands of eyes.

But as I set the phone down on the nightstand, looking around at the colorful, quiet remnants of the girl who used to live in this room, I know it's definitely not the whole truth either.