Sundays always feel different.
Not in any dramatic way... just softer. Quieter.
Like someone gently turns down the world's volume.
When I opened my eyes, sunlight was already spilling across the floor in warm, lazy stripes. I'd slept later than usual — rare for me, since school days had trained my body to wake early. For a moment, I just lay there, watching dust motes drift through the golden morning light.
A soft knock came at my door.
"Yiyi? Are you awake?"
I sat up. "Mm. Just now."
Mom pushed the door open with a gentle smile. "I figured. You're never this slow in the mornings."
By the time I reached the kitchen, she had already set out warm soybean milk and a plate of small steamed buns. The window was open, letting in a cool breeze that rustled the curtains.
"You're free today?" she asked, passing me chopsticks.
"Yes."
"You should relax. Maybe go out with Xia?"
"...She might ask later."
Mom chuckled knowingly. "You always wait for her to invite you."
I lowered my eyes. "She's better at deciding things."
We ate quietly after that.
Other families might find that silence uncomfortable.
But with Mom, silence felt... natural.
Comfortable.
I spent the late morning tidying my room — folding clothes, rearranging books, wiping my desk. When I watered the little succulent on my windowsill, I noticed it had grown a bit. That small change made me smile more than it should have.
Around noon, my phone buzzed.
Xia: Yiyi! Arcade? Tea? Shopping?
I stared at the message for a long moment.
Me: I think I'll stay home today.
Three crying emojis appeared.
Followed by:
Xia: Fine. I'll send you pictures later.
I felt a little guilty.
But only a little.
By mid-afternoon, the house felt too quiet, even for me.
So I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside.
The air was warm but gentle, and the neighborhood buzzed with the soft hum of a Sunday afternoon — families slurping noodles, kids chasing bubbles, bicycle bells chiming as people passed.
I walked without a destination, letting the sunlight warm my neck.
Before I realized it, I had wandered toward the small bookstore I liked.
Inside, the air smelled of paper and old wood.
I drifted between shelves, fingertips brushing spines, letting titles speak louder than my own thoughts.
Near the front, a new romance novel was displayed.
The cover showed two silhouettes walking under a streetlamp.
I picked it up, flipping through its delicate pages.
"Looking for something new today?" the shopkeeper asked.
She was an older woman with gentle eyes — she always remembered regulars.
"Just browsing," I said softly.
She smiled. "Quiet stories suit you."
I wasn't sure what to say, so I just nodded.
In the end, I bought the book — the kind with soft emotions that linger in the chest long after you close the cover. She wrapped it in brown paper with practiced care.
On my way home, I passed a small family noodle restaurant I didn't remember seeing before.
The windows were fogged with steam.
Inside, the warmth of the kitchen lights spilled across wooden tables. People chatted softly over bowls of noodles.
A young man moved behind the counter — carrying trays, wiping tables.
From where I stood, I couldn't see his face clearly.
I paused.
Just curiosity.
Just a passing moment.
Then I kept walking.
When I got home, Dad had returned. He greeted me with a soft "Welcome home," eyes still scanning his newspaper. Mom was chopping vegetables for dinner.
"Can you wash these?" she asked.
I nodded, stepping beside her.
The rhythm of running water over vegetables was soothing, like white noise.
No loud conversations.
No chaos.
Just quiet warmth.
After dinner, I showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and curled up on my bed with the new book. One line made me stop:
"I want someone to share everyday moments with... nothing grand, just the little things."
My eyes lingered on that sentence for longer than I meant to.
Later, I sat by my window with my chin resting on my arms.
Outside, the streetlights flickered to life one by one, painting the road in soft amber.
People passed by — carrying takeout bags, chatting softly, calling children home.
A peaceful night.
Just like always.
Tomorrow would be Monday.
Another ordinary school day.
And that was fine.
Ordinary was comfortable.
For now.