The sun glared through the only window in the apartment as I struggled to keep my eyes open. It was Saturday, a day of no work thankfully. I rolled over, remembering I was still in my dark grey work shirt —uncomfortable as hell, it was— and stared at the signed Nicholas Cage poster on the flaking wall opposite me. It reminded me of Megan, specifically the time she wanted to buy it. 'He isn't even that hot,' I said to her, trying to discourage her from buying the photo, 'What's the point in buying a poster of a guy's face if the guy isn't even handsome.' She replied with something like 'It doesn't really matter because I care about his talent for acting, not his face. Anyway, it's not even you who's paying for it, dad.' It was the first and only time she'd called me dad, and even though it may have been an accident, I still cared a whole lot about it (and that's why I let her buy the horrible poster). I remember right after, she awkwardly kept apologising, questioning if I was alright with it, or if she should've said 'mum' or just 'parent' instead, then arguing that it is confusing for someone to have more than one gender. I just smiled, like I always do. I rolled over under my sheet again, now facing the wall next to me. I thought 'maybe I can get some more sleep if I block out the sun a bit', even though I knew it was an impossible idea. Megan dropped a clean frypan on my hip, which hurt more than expected, and yelled:

"Harris! Breakfast! Now!"

She does this every morning. I knocked the frypan onto the floor and rubbed the bruise on the side of my body. She stared at me and softly giggled uncontrollably. I joined in, but still didn't find what she did even remotely funny. She appreciates my positivity and upbeat reaction , but doesn't know the pain I'm feeling inside. I rolled my body off of the futon and stumbled into the kitchen area, picking up the frypan on the way. Megan eagerly sat down on a high stool on the opposite side of the kitchen workbench as I placed the frypan on the stove and began to cook her a nice breakfast of bacon and fried egg sandwiches (her favourite).

—

The apartment was cold, and I could see a cloud of vapour escape my mouth as I exhaled. Soft raindrops created soft, unorganised beats as I watched the droplets race down my window. The weather was weird today, I though. Sunny one moment, raining like it's winter the next. I was alone. Megan had left a few minutes ago to go to the park or something, and I expected her to come back soon. Every so often I stared back at the door, waiting for her smiling face to return and tell me how fast she had to run back here. Just thinking of her made the grin of my resting face turn into one as big as the one on a weeb's face in Akiba. She's the only reason why I'm happy. Without her, my life would be a wreck. She's my purpose, the reason why I haven't given up in this cruel world. She's my daughter. I stared back again at the door for a few seconds. Nothing. I rested my chin on the cold windowsill, now slightly distressed. I checked my watch, realising that she's been out for just over four minutes now, even though it felt like hours. I told myself that there was nothing to be afraid of, that she was probably just running around in the cool rain. But what if she slipped over and is now lying on the floor unconscious, surrounded in a pool of blood, or maybe a clown hiding in the sewer took her paper boat and is planning on dragging her down with him. Being a guardian is fucking nerve-wracking, I thought. My internal monologue ended as I heard the clanky sound of a key enter the door's lock. I quickly turned around to see Megan's rain drenched clothes and surprisingly happy face.

"You won't believe how fast I had to run back here," she bragged.

"Meggo, you're going to get the floor wet," I replied like a responsible adult, "Go dry yourself off in the bathroom before you make any more of a mess than you already have."

"This place is already a pigsty. I doubt I'd me making much of a difference."

I pointed my finger to the door of the bathroom with a suggestive expression, which she acknowledge as she walked away in the general direction of where I was signalling for her to go to. She wandered out of my peripheral vision, presumable to the bathroom, then slammed a door. I woke up.

The windowsill felt cool on my cheek. The wood was damp with condensation. I sat up and immediately looked at the door. It felt like I sensed it was untouched.

"Meg?!" I yelled, with a shiver in my voice.

There was no response, so I tried again.

"Megan?! Are you home?!"

Only the previously relaxing pitter of rain upon the window filled my ears. I pulled my rolled down shirt sleeve up, revealing my wrist and the tacky watch that wrapped around it. Nine hours. I'd been asleep for nine hours, through the middle of the day. I gradually became more and more nervous as I paced around the room. Where was she? What do I do? Questions like these filled my mind, blocking out any other thought that dared to compete. My brain was a wreck.