Your room is dark, the curtains drawn tight against the London morning. The only light comes from the digital clock and the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows of the barre mounted on your wall.

Downstairs, the kitchen is a study in minimalism. A single place is set at the island. A bowl of oatmeal, a glass of water, a small dish of berries. Your father stands at the counter, his back to you, reading something on his tablet.