The aroma of freshly printed pages filled Maya’s small apartment. It always had, ever since her dad, a retired librarian, had started his self-publishing venture. Now, though, the smell seemed to choke her. She slammed the door to her bedroom, the sound a sharp punctuation mark in the quiet house. Her father, nose buried in a proof copy of his latest fantasy novel, didn't even flinch. He'd been asking her to help him edit, again. She'd told him, again, she was busy. But the truth was, she was tired of his world, the one he was now forcing onto her, the one she’d always been a part of in the background.
She yanked off her headphones, the silence amplifying the thrumming in her ears. He called out from the living room, "Dinner's almost ready, Maya! Can you bring in the tomato plants? They need to be sheltered from the storm." She didn't respond. He knew she was in there.
Ignoring the request, she grabbed her worn leather jacket and her car keys. She was going for a drive, anywhere away from the ink and the expectations. The roar of the engine as she peeled out of the driveway was her reply. The wind whipped her hair as she sped, a small act of rebellion in a world of well-worn pages.