"Hey—this bowl's mine," I said, waving the coupon like a tiny white flag.
Maya snorted. "You say that like the universe takes coupons."
"Maybe the universe takes coupons," Diana said, cutting noodles with the edge of a plastic fork. "Especially if the universe smells like sesame oil."
"I thought the universe smelled like regret," Maya shot back. "Or laundry. Depends on your major."
"You two are useless," I said, sliding into the counter seat. "Unless useless is an official career path, in which case I want letters of recommendation."
"You're turning nineteen into a manifesto," Diana said. She pointed her fork at me. "So, Mingxin, when are you going to get a boyfriend who can carry a tray without dropping someone's phone?"
I picked up my chopsticks. "When my standards stop being 'doesn't steal my hoodie' and start being 'not secretly a villain.'"
Maya laughed. "That's the same thing, honestly."
"Also," Diana said, lowering her voice like we were plotting a heist, "you keep talking about signs. The universe, the fates, destiny, whatever. You're obsessed. What did Granddad Henry say about signs?"
"Granddad Henry said, 'Don't marry a family you can't fix with soup and an apology letter,'" I replied. "That's free advice."
"So no signs, no destiny, just soup and apology letters," Maya said. "Save it for the wedding speech."
"You're impossible," I said, but I smiled. They were loud, honest, and right where I needed them to
