Nothing in Common

Mina never thought too hard about her parents’ requests. When her dad said, “Be home for dinner tonight—an old friend is visiting,” she didn’t question it. That was just how things worked in her house. Before he hung up, he added, more pointed this time, “And come home early enough to shower. I don’t like you smelling like chlorine or like you’ve been in the ocean.”

She moved easily through the world without overanalyzing it. She wasn’t studious—never had been. She did well enough in school, but only just enough. Mina had a quiet talent for finding the path of least resistance: shortcuts through assignments, loopholes in instructions, just enough effort to land on her feet. Deadlines weren’t something she prepared for; they were something she raced toward at the last minute and somehow always caught. It wasn’t that she couldn’t work harder—she just never felt the need to.

What she was good at didn’t come from books. She read people quickly, laughed easily, and makes friends wherever she went. At the pool, she was all rhythm and instinct—strong shoulders, steady breathing, the quiet confidence of someone who trusted her body more than overthinking her mind. Coaches loved her. Teammates followed her.

So when her dad called the first time, she didn’t think anything of it.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“On my way,” she said, easy.

The second call came not long after. Then a third.

By the fourth time, his voice had edged into something close to panic.

“Where are you now?”

“I’m literally turning into the neighborhood,” she said, glancing at the familiar street ahead, a little amused. “Relax, I’m almost home.”

She hung up, still not questioning it. Her dad could be intense about timing. That was all.

When she got home—late—the house felt a little fuller than usual. She had showered quickly at the pool, just enough to rinse off the chlorine, and done her makeup in the locker room mirror, but only lightly—concealer, a bit of mascara, nothing that looked like effort. Her hair was still just pulled back, damp at the edges. She wore what she’d already had on: shorts, a loose tank top, flip flops. Still, her skin held the warmth of the sun, that easy glow from hours spent outside, like she had carried the day home with her.

Shoes by the door that weren’t theirs. Voices in the living room. She stepped in, smiling automatically.

Her dad beamed. “You’re here! Come, come—meet my friend.”

“There she is,” Mina said lightly, slipping into the room as if she hadn’t kept anyone waiting.

There was a couple sitting on the couch, polished and composed, and beside them, a young man who stood up a beat too quickly when he saw her. He looked like the kind of person you might pass ten times and not remember—neatly dressed, glasses, hair combed with careful precision. Not unattractive, just… unremarkable.

“This is Daniel,” her dad said.

“Hi,” Mina said brightly, offering a hand like she always did.

Daniel shook it, a little stiff. “Hi.”

It wasn’t until she stepped into the dining room that something felt off.

Her mom had gone all out. The meal followed the familiar structure of a traditional rice dinner—bowls of steamed white rice set at each place—but tonight there were far more dishes than usual. Caramelized catfish, canh chua, caramelized pork ribs, stir-fried ong choy with garlic.

And then the others—chả lụa, red sticky rice, stir-fried bamboo that gave off a sharp smell, lemongrass eel, pickled eggplant.

Too many dishes.

Too many choices.

Like someone was trying to cover everything.

But what stood out most—

They weren’t at the main table.

The large dining table under the chandelier—the one they always used—sat empty.

Instead, everything had been moved into the smaller dining room.

And there were two tables.

Mina noticed.

It didn’t make sense.

But she let it go.

“Not enough room,” her dad said. “You kids sit over there.”

“Got it,” Mina said.

Later, at the smaller table, she smiled at Daniel.

“So, do you like it here?”

He hesitated. “I guess… this is kind of a setup.”

Mina tilted her head. “A setup?”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing toward the other table. “My parents told me earlier.” He paused. “They told me to take it seriously. And… not be too weird.”

Mina let out a small laugh, warm. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said.

The air shifted.

Awkward now.

She felt it—and moved to smooth it over.

Mina had always been more talkative. Silence didn’t sit well with her, especially not this kind. So she filled it the only way she knew how—by being nice.

“So what do you like to do?” she asked.

“I stay in mostly. I like quiet.”

“That’s nice,” Mina said. “I’m never home.”

And then she kept going.

“I swim every day,” she added. “And I surf when I can. I like being outside. I hate just sitting around.”

He nodded.

“I go camping sometimes,” she continued. “And I like traveling. Not like—planned trips. Just going somewhere and figuring it out, meeting people. It’s more fun that way.”

Daniel smiled politely, trying to follow.

“I don’t really like crowds,” he said.

“I love them,” Mina said easily. “They’re the best part.”

She barely paused before moving on again.

“School’s whatever,” she added. “I just get it done. Swimming’s more important.”

He nodded again.

“I wish I had a pet,” she said. “My parents won’t let me. They say it’s too much work.”

“I have a dog,” Daniel offered.

Mina smiled, quick and bright. “That’s nice. I want cats.”

The conversation kept going like that.

He answered.

She answered more.

At some point, they both glanced down at the table again.

“This is all your favorite stuff?” Mina asked, half amused.

Daniel nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

She looked back at her side—catfish, canh chua, pork ribs, ong choy.

“Mine too,” she said.

There was a small pause as they both took that in.

The table was full of favorites.

Just not the same ones.

None of it overlapped.

Mina smiled anyway, lifting her chopsticks. “Perfect. Then we won’t fight over anything.”

He laughed softly.

But everything stayed slightly off.

She thought his food looked dry. The bamboo smelled strong enough that she leaned back without realizing it.

He thought hers was too garlicky. Too heavy.

Neither said it.

They just kept talking.

Or mostly—she did.

Not because she wasn’t listening.

But because she was trying to be kind.

Trying to make it easier.

Trying to turn something awkward into something that felt normal again.

And without saying it directly, without ever making it uncomfortable, she kept showing him—through every answer, every difference—that she wasn’t what he was here for.

Not rejecting him.

Just… not matching.

Across the room, their parents laughed loudly in a language Mina couldn’t follow.

At the smaller table, Mina carried the conversation the whole way through.

Light.

Friendly.

Safe.

Like she was helping both of them step out of a story they hadn’t really chosen.