Priya's performance

 Priya sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through her mother’s Instagram feed. There she was, smiling stiffly in a sequined dress beside a towering Valentine’s Day floral arrangement, captioned: "Because our princess deserves love every day!"

The problem? It was January 28th. Not her birthday. Not even Valentine’s Day. Just a random Tuesday when her parents had forgotten again to ask about her choir audition.

The flowers had arrived late, as always, plucked from some pre-Valentine luxury flowers concierge service. Her father had handed them off mid-phone call with a client on the way to the one of their family’s popular retail stores. Her mother had staged the photo before the petals even unfurled, adjusting the ribbon and the Valentine heart shaped balloon so the boutique’s logo faced the camera.

Priya remembered the comments: "Such devoted parents!" "Goals!💖" “So much love”

But the vase sat untouched on the counter now, its roses wilting., the balloon clinging to the last of its helium energy. No one had asked if she even liked red. No one noticed when she tossed the card—"To Our Greatest Joy" printed in generic gold script—into the junk drawer with the others.

Down the hall, her parents’ voices buzzed about a new investment property. On the fridge, a magnet held the schedule for next month’s "family getaway" to a five-star resort in Miami where they’d all pose by the infinity pool, then retreat to separate rooms to answer emails. She had become accustomed to this display of love by her parents, cold, distant. For her 15th birthday, they threw a big party at a popular club in her honor—but they had invited their own friends and their friends’ children, not her friends.

Priya poked at a sagging roses. They shed petals like confetti from last year’s surprise birthday party, the one where the influencer-friendly cake had arrived with her name misspelled.

"Prya," in icing.

No one had noticed that, either.