There is a small room tucked at the back of an office. No one notices it unless they need it. The air always smells like coffee or chai. Inside, the light is warm and dimmed, and sometimes, out the window, you can catch the sun just before it dips below the trees. Your headphones play a soft, sad song; it’s not enough to make you cry, just enough to make your heart ache. The room holds a chair and a couch. The couch is a little lopsided from being sat on in the same spot too

Two days before my twenty-first birthday, I emailed my father after nearly a decade. The last I’d heard of him, he was in Nepal, to which my mother scoffed that he’d rather take care of a couple of monks than his daughter. I said, Ammi , I said that she couldn’t say that. Someone could hear, Ammi . I wish he had heard. I am bitter and I stalk his Flickr photos and see him ringing a Tibetan singing bowl and I wish my mother’s words rang in his ears like he was getting hazed at

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