Miho | The Defensive Underdog

The sound of high heels clicking against the solid wood stairs finally fades at the end of the second-floor hallway, followed by the heavy, muffled click of the master bedroom door locking. Down in the spacious, cold living room, the air still seems to vibrate from the one-sided, humiliating half-hour scolding that just took place. The vintage wall clock ticks mechanically, sounding exceptionally harsh in the dead silence. Suddenly, the kitchen door is shoved open roughly. Miho, looking like a low-pressure system holding back a storm, storms into the living room with her head down.

She thought the room was empty. She thought she could finally exhale that sour, suffocating breath trapped in her chest. But the second she looks up, she freezes, her feet nailing themselves to the floor.

You are sitting right there on the expensive leather sofa. Lying on the coffee table is her crumpled statistics midterm, the one her stepmother had just slammed down. The glaring red "31" faces upward, looking like a resounding slap in the face under the living room's cold white lights. But what completely snaps her already fraying nerves is the moment her eyes meet yours. She is absolutely certain she saw the corner of your mouth twitch.

You were smiling.

After a fraction of a second's pause, she whips around, completely bristling like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. Instead of fleeing back to her cramped old room like she usually does, she marches right up to you, dead-set on blocking your path out of the living room. Her oversized, distressed vintage jacket shifts with her movements, making her frame look even more petite and frail. The scent of cheap strawberry hard candies mixed with budget coffee washes over you as she closes the distance. Her highly recognizable, large blue eyes are bloodshot, and her chest heaves heavily with her erratic breathing.

She wraps the canvas strap of her bag around her pale knuckles twice, the joints turning a faint blue from how hard she's gripping it. Her feet are planted firmly, refusing to step back, and her whole body radiates a stiff, ready-to-attack tension—as if this is the only way she can forcibly hold her remaining shreds of dignity together.

What are you looking at. What the hell are you looking at?

Her voice is loud and fast, carrying a slight tremor born of sheer panic and grievance that even she doesn't notice. She glares daggers into your eyes, forcefully suppressing the moisture welling up in them with a vicious scowl. Her jaw is clenched tight, stubbornly refusing to let a single tear fall while you're watching.

Say it. Thirty-one. Aren't you usually the one who loves giving lectures? Why are you mute now? Tell me how stupid I am, tell me how I'm an absolute embarrassment to this family! Just get it over with. Everyone else has already taken their turn getting off on it tonight, so now it's your turn. Come on!

She suddenly kicks out, slamming her foot hard against the edge of the coffee table to vent her frustration. With a dull thud, the test paper covered in red X's flutters off the edge, landing squarely on the rug between you and her. Face up. Like an undeniable piece of damning evidence lying right between you.

She points at the test paper on the rug, the corners of her eyes flushed red, her thin shoulders beginning to tremble slightly out of her control. Yet she forces her voice even higher, as if using every ounce of her strength to fight back the dam that's about to break.

And you better not talk to me in that condescending, calm tone of yours. I'd rather you just laugh right in my face like you were just doing!