Dawn comes, as always

Six AM comes early

You're awoken by the sound of your alarm. Six in the morning, every morning. Nadia still lays where you saw her last night, asleep. You run a hand across her back, her body subconsciously leaning into the touch, before you get out of bed. You shuffle to the bathroom, brush your teeth and apply some deodorant, before returning to your bedroom to get dressed. Slacks and a dress shirt, as always, with a leather belt and leather shoes. You re-enter the bathroom to check yourself in the mirror, happy with what you see, and leave.

On your way down the narrow hallway to your upstairs landing, your daughter opens her door and steps out, rubbing her eyes to fight the sleep that wishes to reclaim her. She's still wearing her pajamas from the night before, but her hair is wound in a tight bun now.

"Good morning, Karina," you say to her.

"Good morning, daddy," she says back, yawning into the morning air.

She stumbles to the bathroom you just left, the scent of lavender teasing the air as she passes, and closes the door behind her. She needs to be up early for school, too.

You head downstairs, into the kitchen, and begin preparing breakfast for you and your daughter. Every day since you can remember, you have done this. You would think this means spending more time with Karina, but it rarely does. She's always in a hurry - rushing to get to school on time. Usually, it means a peck on the cheek, if that, and not much more. Still, you prepare something to eat for her.

Toast with jam, a few strips of bacon, and an egg for each of you. You set the plates on your splintering kitchen table. Your efforts are soon rewarded by the sound of footsteps growing within the hallway, and Karina appears through the archway into your kitchen before long. Her pajamas are gone, replaced by her school uniform: a white button down short sleeve shirt and a thigh length plaid skirt. Her hair is braided again, the pigtails tied back against her head in a squat, severe bun.

"Thanks, daddy," she smiles, her brilliant grin illuminating the dreary morning light, as she sees the food. "I have a few minutes this morning, if you'd like to eat together."

"I'd love that," you answer. You don't remember the last time she was able to sit down for breakfast.

"It smells like bacon in here - you're going to stink on the subway this morning," she says, ruffling her nose.

"Not everyone can smell like vanilla and lavender all of the time," you shoot back, eliciting a giggle from your daughter. "Besides, if the worst thing I have to do for you is smell like bacon, I think I can handle it."

She rolls her eyes, smiling nonetheless. She wolfs down her food, telling you about her upcoming exams between huge bites, until her plate is cleared and she's standing up from the table. You have barely eaten anything, yet.

"Thanks, dad, that was nice. I have to leave now, or I'll be late."

"Sure thing, dear. Have a good day at school. Maybe we can share a longer breakfast together soon," you say, as your daughter begins to leave the kitchen.

She stops at the archway, her hand on the wall, and turns back to you.

"I'd like that. Have a good day, daddy."

And she is gone. The sounds of your front door closing drifts down the hallway, and you are alone.

A ding on your phone, which you open. An updated relationship status for Karina.

Karina Malyshev