Silent Tangerines

"You stay here, I will be back sooner." Hearing these words from my father, I nodded with feigned patience. A blankness filled my mind as I stared at the cracked leather seats of the station lobby, my fingers tracing the peeling armrest.

Our relationship had always been strained, like a poorly tuned radio- perhaps because we exchanged fewer words than the morning weather reports. Yet here he was, insisting on driving me to the high-speed rail station for my first solo journey to university. I'd protested weakly, but his stubbornness outmatched mine.

As the car engine coughed to life, I mumbled about forgetting tangerines - more to myself than him. The words barely escaped my lips, drowned by the rattling of loose hubcaps.

His lecture began predictably: "Don't trust strangers" and "Eat regular meals" alternated like a broken record. I slumped in the backseat, eyes shut tight. The radio's static stretched between us until he finally stopped talking.

At the station entrance, he repeated stiffly: "You stay here." I watched his slightly hunched figure dissolve into the crowd. Ten minutes later, he emerged clutching a transparent bulging with golden spheres.

A security guard shouted** as he jogged across the forbidden drop-off zone. "These..." He thrust the tangerines at me, their skins gleaming with condensation. The departure bell rang.

On the train, I peeled one mechanically. Juice stung a paper cut I'd gotten packing last night. Suddenly I recalled midnight bathroom trips - always finding him mending my schoolbag straps under the dim kitchen light. The tart sweetness bloomed on my tongue like unanswered questions.