Today was a holiday from school.
Four days off.
We could go home. Actually, stay there for once.
Not that the dorms were bad—but my parents had insisted. You've barely lived with us, they'd said. Come home.
So here I was.
I knocked on the door of my parents' apartment.
It opened almost immediately. My mother pulled me into a hug that was a little too tight, like she'd been holding it in for weeks. My father hovered behind her, already asking questions before I could even step inside.
"Are you eating properly?"
"Are your classes going well?"
"You look tired—are you sleeping enough?"
"I'm fine," I said quickly. "Really."
They exchanged a look but let it go.
After a while, they told me to unpack and rest. They'd make tea and wait in the living room. We had time—four whole days.
I went to my room.
It didn't feel like my room.
The bed was neatly made, the shelves mostly empty, a few framed photos placed carefully—like someone trying very hard to make a space feel lived-in. I hadn't grown up here. I hadn't fallen asleep in this bed as a child. This room was new. Temporary.
Just like everything else lately.
I unpacked slowly, my thoughts drifting, the sound of the city faint through the window. When I finished, I stepped out of the room to join them.
That's when I heard voices.
My mother's voice—quiet. Tight.
"…we can't keep avoiding it."
I stopped.
My father sighed. "I know. But she's not ready."
My heart skipped.
"She deserves the truth," my mother said. "Especially now. What if she starts asking questions?"
A pause.
Then my father said something that made my stomach drop.
"She's our daughter in every way that matters… just not by birth."
My whole world came crashing down.
"We raised her," he continued quickly. "She's ours in every way that matters. But biologically—"
"I know," my mother whispered. "But how long do we wait? Another year? Another five?"
My chest felt hollow.
"When will we tell her?" my mother asked.
"We will tell her, Ira," my father said. "Just… not yet."
That was it.
I stepped into the living room.
"Tell me what?"
They both turned around.
The color drained from my mother's face. My father froze mid-sip of tea.
"How long?" I asked, my voice too calm for how loud my heart was beating. "How long were you going to lie to me?"
My mother stood up immediately. "Hope—"
"No," I said. "Please. Just tell me."
The silence was unbearable.
Finally, my father spoke.
"We found you," he said quietly. "Near the sea. When you were a baby."
The word hit harder than it should have.
"There had been a storm, 16 years ago," my mother added, her hands shaking. "Years ago. The waves were violent. Everyone had been warned to stay away."
"You were alone," my father said. "In a basket. Wrapped in cloth. Crying."
My throat tightened. "You're saying someone left me there?"
"There was no one else," my mother whispered. "No note. No sign. We waited. We searched."
"No one came."
I felt numb.
"So I'm just—" My voice broke. "I'm not yours."
My mother crossed the room and grabbed my hands. "You are ours," she said fiercely. "We chose you. We loved you from the moment we saw you."
I pulled my hands back.
"I need some space."
"Hope, please—" my father started.
But I was already walking away.
I packed quickly. Messily. I didn't know what I was taking—just that I needed to leave before I completely fell apart.
My mother followed me to the door, begging me to stay, to talk, to understand.
I couldn't.
I didn't trust myself not to scream.
I left.
I didn't go back to the apartment.
I went back to the dorm.
The halls were quiet. Too quiet.
Two lights were still on.
Mine. Seraphina had some volunteer work to complete, so she didn't go home
Xylan's room.
Of course, he hadn't gone home.
He never did.
I stood outside his door, my chest tight, the word sea echoing in my head like a warning.
I knocked.
And for the first time, I wasn't running.