I watch you scribble across the ground, thinking about how easy it is for you to get lost. You're on your hands and knees creating a world away from mine as my eyes trace every mark, every detail you leave behind. But that's fine. Really, I don't mind. Because from the moment you were born, up until this very second, if compared to a thousand, the few years you've existed for is only an instant. I suppose you wouldn't understand, but what I mean is that life is much more interesting with you back in it.

I remember yesterday when you walked around the house with your hands on your hips. You looked at me and told me that everything is always white and boring and it all looks the same no matter where you go. I wasn't quite sure what you meant—this is just how everything is—so I asked you how you would change it. In response, you asked me for something to draw with.

Today, your hand is wrapped around a piece of chalk. Your favorite color smudges with mine into a discordance of what is a common symbol of warning among humans. However, to me, it's really something quite beautiful. I like it because it's the color of you. Of us. I love this beautiful white world we live in for many reasons, but I let you stain our ground with your art. It will remind me of you, and I'm excited to walk out of our house every day and see it and be reminded of the image of your head hung lost in imagination. Maybe I'm just sentimental, but maybe it's also because I feel a little afraid sometimes.

"Ba?"

Our eyes finally meet.

"Hm?" I look down at you. "Sorry, Baba is just admiring what you've drawn."

"Oh. Is that good?"

"Yes, admiring means to appreciate. It means I like it."

You try to hide your smile and return to your work.

I sit myself down on the ground next to you.

The pearlescent lights move with the flowing water, shining down from the clear pipes above. The smallest rainbows reflect off the ground and, if you look close enough, also along the highlights of your black hair. This is a place for something beautiful, and you know this because you chose it.

You hold the piece of chalk like an artist, rendering lines and dots and circles, imperfectly placed along the waves of lights. Your movements are slow, but there's a gentle look of confidence illuminated in your eyes. And despite all these years, that quality of expression is new to me.

Before, you probably would have asked me if I really meant it when I said I liked it—what you've made. I would have told you yes. Yes, I do. With all my heart, I do. Then you would have shifted in your seat and looked out the window, eyes focused on nothing, fingers under your chin, as if you were a brooding grown up and the only things you can feel now are sadness and boredom. Back then, things were so different.

I remember when you would hoard things you rarely touched, only to toss them out when you thought you could finally stop dreaming, and soon after you would regret having thrown them away, leaving yourself to rebuild your collection once more. It would always be the same things: toys, makeup, stuffed animals, pretty clothes. It's impossible to forget the way you never looked back when you packed all of those things into boxes, hoping that, surely, it would be the last and final time.

Once, you almost threw me away. You caught me at the right time, and I watched you cry. I forgave you, because I knew that I couldn't see what you saw or think what you thought, because the machinery of your mind was so different from mine, and, at the time I was so desperate to understand, because, even when I begged you, you would not believe me when I told you that I still loved you.

I ruffle your hair—sad, happy, but mostly proud of who you've become. You giggle and lean into my hand, then duck away to continue drawing. Even now you evade me, but these days I'm able to sit next to you. I can finally place my hand on your little head, even if it's only for a second. And that makes me happy, because now it really feels like we're meant to be together. I lean forward and trace my fingers above the lines you leave behind, traveling through your art, smiling.

"Yellow and black. Those are our favorite colors," I say.

You pause for a moment, silent. My eyes lift to look at your face, but your expression already changed as you slowly start drawing another circle. I raise my brows.

"Is that not what you had in mind?"

You shake your head.

"The black is, uh, space, and yellow—uh, yellow is stars."

I glance at your drawing again.

Of course, of course. The messy black mass cradles the yellow, holding each and every dot and star and scribble in place. By now, you must have drawn dozens, maybe a hundred, of them. Within each one, I wonder what kind of world you imagine, and my finger slides from star to star, closer to you.

"You really like outer space, don't you, sweetie?"

"Mhm. I'm making a map," you say, as you draw more stars. "I'm going to become a scientist. Just like you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I'll discover more stars. I'll visit one too."

"I see. They're very hot. I think you'll burn your feet."

You shake your head.

"I really will."

My fingers hop right next to yours.

But you keep drawing, eyes deep in thought, lost— off to a different world.

In my mind, I see you in a little space suit, and your rocket ship is leaving the atmosphere. You wave goodbye to me, and then, in just a moment, you're gone.

On your journey, you skip from planet to planet. You never get to know a world for more than a moment, and you're okay with that. For you, that's just part of the fun. It makes you happy. You fly through an infinite space, and through that small and circular window, not once do you ever look back.

In my mind, I'm back on our little planet, and there's nothing left but me.

I'm looking up at you, waving for more than a thousand years.

I slowly lift my finger away from your drawing then place my hand on your shoulder, and you look up at me with wide eyes, as if I had done something cruel. With your imaginary world shattered, you chew your lip.

"It's time for dinner," I say.

You nod.

"Let's go wash your hands."

You nod again, and you set the chalk down carefully, fingers covered in a messy, dark smudge.

---

We enter our home, and we take off our shoes as to not disturb the white-on-white decor that you dislike. I lead you into the bathroom and you follow along to the sink.

I take a look into the mirror and watch your head bob into view. Then, I pull out the stool for you.

You take a look at the stool, then back at me. You've always been an exceptionally small girl, so, despite your age, you're still too short to reach the faucet. Your height is something that has always bothered you, so I'm not surprised when you push the stool away, trying to reach for the handles without its help.

Your finger slips on the first try, but you manage to get it on your second. You're not smiling, but I can tell that you're pleased with yourself as you feel the water run through your fingers.

You reach for the bar of soap, but I stand behind you, grabbing it first. I place my chin atop your head, and begin to lather the soap into your little hands, and through the trickling water I hear you speak.

"I'm going to become a scientist too," you say.

I know that, because you had already said it earlier, but I humor you anyways while washing the back of your hands.

"What are you going to do as a scientist?"

"Make discoveries," you say as you rub your palms together.

"What kind of discoveries?" I ask, as my fingers glide through yours, lathering between each one.

"Really good ones. Something you've never discovered before." You clean underneath your nails, just like I taught you.

"Oh? You'll be a better scientist than Baba?"

I place your hands underneath the running water, and you nod as you rinse the color off of your hands. Your voice is small.

"I'll surprise you. You'll be proud of me."

There's a pause, and I remove my hands from yours, cold air filling between our skin. You hesitate before you open your mouth again.

"Because... sometimes I don't know if you like me or not."

The mess of colors swirl and drain into the dark hole in the middle of the pure white sink. I remove my chin from the top of your head.

I know where every drain leads to on this planet. I know exactly what was used to make the chalk, how much of it, the process in which it was mixed and made together, and the material cost. I know how much water was used just now, how much is left, and what it'll take to purify it so I can help you wash your hands again. I'm a scientist, and I know everything. Though, what fascinates me the most is what I don't know, and there's a lot of things that I don't know, and all of those things are running around in this little head of yours. But this time—this I know. For certain, this is one of the few things I have learned over the years of trying to tame the things I don't know.

I step away from you, and you look back at me.

I feel terrible.

There are many things I could say, and I wish I could just say it, but love isn't an easy path. This is a world where I am your father, and you are my daughter. Every word I say, every action I take, every little thing changes your view of the world. I wipe my hands dry, clean as ever.

I make you happy. I make you smile. I can and will give you everything you could ever want, because your existence is my purpose. It's difficult to say if this world is my paradise or yours, because it makes me happy too. I can hold you, I can feel your warmth, and I can breathe in your scent. I can be your father, and I can fix it all. I'm no longer small. There are many things I want to show you, and every day I hope you are watching, because I want to change the monster inside of you.

Forgive me, sweetie, because I'm selfish.

"I look forward to your discoveries."

My chest tightens as I speak, but nothing can be accomplished without a little heartache. You taught me that.

You look at the drain, avoiding my eyes in the mirror. Sometimes I wish you weren't so smart, but during times like this it works in my favor. Quietly, you step away and dry your hands with a white towel, leaving behind a stain of color that didn't quite wash off.

At first, you don't look at me.

But you're my daughter, so you do anyway.

You reach towards me, but, before you could wrap your fingers around mine, I lift my hand away to adjust my glasses.

Your expression flattens. I watch your fingers curl in on themselves, limbs shrinking against your body. Your eyes are blank, and they remind me of some of the best years of my life, a long time ago.

"I'm hungry," you say.

"I know." I smile at you. "Let's go eat."

I finish wiping my glasses with my shirt, then I slide them back into place. Slowly, I take your hand in mine and your head flips up to look at me. I love the other you, but right now I want to see you smile again, just for a bit.

"I made your favorite."

As expected, a big smile grows on your face, and you hop in place with excitement while my arm bounces up and down in your hands. It's so warm.

And soft.

And so, so small.

I never want to let go. But I have to walk ahead of you, and my fingers slip away from yours. You hurry from behind with your little feet, trying to keep up with me.

You're hungry, dear, I know. Emptiness aches, and, throughout all my living years, it's something I came to learn. It's unsurprisingly painful being human. We're so much alike, and that's something I want to cherish.

I lift my head.

The gentle spice of ginger and the nuttiness of sesame wafts through our home. I want to remedy your emptiness with something warm, and maybe in the future, you'll give me something just as tender and soft. Maybe, just maybe, you'll also allow me something a bit more than just that.

And with that in mind, I smile to myself, because I'm reminded of just how much I love you.