Ryan Walker realized something mildly unsettling when he woke up on Saturday morning, and it had nothing to do with the fact that there was no alarm screaming at him from the corner of the room.
The unsettling part was that he felt rested without feeling relieved about it.
In his previous life, rest had always come with a strange aftertaste, like it needed to be justified or compensated for later. Even sleep had felt transactional, something he squeezed in between responsibilities or worries, never something that simply existed on its own.
This morning did not feel like that.
Ryan lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily overhead, listening to the hostel breathe around him. The sounds were softer than usual, footsteps muted, voices distant, as if the entire building had quietly agreed that weekends deserved a different rhythm.
Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains and landed across the floor in uneven stripes, and Ryan noticed that his body felt steady rather than tense. There was no immediate urge to grab his phone, no pressure to calculate how much time he had already lost by not getting up immediately.
That absence felt new.
Ben was still asleep on the other bed, tangled in his blanket in a way that suggested several unconscious battles had been fought and lost overnight. One arm hung over the edge of the mattress, fingers twitching occasionally as if he were arguing with someone in a dream.
Ryan watched him for a moment, then sat up slowly and stretched, careful not to make noise. Instead of rushing through his routine, he moved deliberately, letting each small action happen fully before moving on to the next.
By the time he finished washing up and changed into clean clothes, the morning had settled into something calm rather than empty.
He stepped outside without a clear plan, other than the vague intention of finding breakfast somewhere that did not involve crowds, noise, or unnecessary decisions. The campus looked different on weekends, not because anything had physically changed, but because the absence of urgency made everything feel less demanding.
Paths that were usually crowded now had space between footsteps, benches were occupied by people who looked like they had nowhere else to be, and even the buildings themselves seemed less imposing when no one was rushing in or out of them.
Ryan walked slowly, hands in his pockets, letting his thoughts wander without steering them.
He found a small café near the edge of campus that he vaguely remembered passing by countless times without ever entering. It had always looked too quiet, too unremarkable, and therefore too easy to ignore.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of coffee and baked bread, and the quiet felt intentional rather than awkward. Ryan ordered something simple and sat by the window, watching students drift past outside, some alone, some in pairs, all of them moving without the sharp edges of weekday urgency.
For the first time in a long while, he did not feel like he was behind.
When he returned to the hostel later, carrying nothing but a light sense of satisfaction and a paper bag with crumbs at the bottom, Ben was awake and sitting on his bed, staring at his phone with an expression that suggested deep personal betrayal.
"People," Ben said without looking up, "are awake and doing things on a Saturday."
Ryan paused near his desk. "That's usually how weekends work."
Ben looked up slowly. "I thought weekends were more of a suggestion."
Ryan smiled faintly. "The world disagrees."
Ben sighed dramatically and dropped his phone onto the bed. "Fine. If existence insists on continuing, we should probably eat."
Ryan nodded. "That seems reasonable."
They headed out again, this time without hurry, their conversation drifting lazily from nothing important to slightly less important topics. At some point, Ben stopped walking and turned toward Ryan with an expression that meant he had reached a conclusion without consulting reason.
"We should cook," Ben said.
Ryan blinked. "We should what?"
"Cook," Ben repeated, undeterred. "With ingredients. In the kitchen. Like people who have their lives together."
Ryan hesitated, not because the idea was terrible, but because it felt unfamiliar in a way that made him pause. Cooking had always been something he avoided without thinking too deeply about it, mostly because eating had never felt like something worth slowing down for.
This time, he nodded. "Alright."
They went to a nearby market, Ben moving with unearned confidence while Ryan actually read labels and considered choices instead of grabbing whatever was closest. The process was slower than necessary, mildly chaotic, and unexpectedly pleasant.
Back in the communal kitchen, they laid everything out on the counter and stared at it like it might start explaining itself.
Ben gestured broadly. "We have potential."
Ryan tilted his head. "That's optimistic."
They started awkwardly, chopping vegetables with varying levels of success and debating seasoning choices like they mattered more than they probably did. Ben dropped something almost immediately and claimed it was part of the process.
"There's no audience," Ryan said, trying not to laugh.
Ben shrugged. "I perform for myself."
As they worked, the kitchen filled with quiet sounds, the scrape of knives, the hiss of heat, and the smell of food slowly becoming something recognizable. Ryan noticed how focused he felt, how his thoughts slowed naturally when his hands were busy.
He tasted, adjusted, and tried again without frustration, and for the first time, cooking felt less like effort and more like presence.
When they finally sat down to eat, the result was better than Ryan had expected and slightly worse than Ben claimed.
"This," Ben said solemnly, "is absolutely edible."
Ryan smiled. "High praise."
They cleaned up together without complaint, and Ryan realized that he felt relaxed rather than tired, satisfied rather than drained.
Later that afternoon, Ryan stepped outside again, this time alone, and wandered toward the campus green. Students lounged on the grass, some reading, some talking, and some doing nothing in particular.
He spotted Elena sitting under a tree with a book resting on her knees, her posture relaxed in a way he had not seen earlier in the week. She looked up when she noticed him, surprise flickering across her face before softening into a smile.
"Hey," she said.
Ryan stopped a few steps away. "Hey. Mind if I sit?"
She shook her head. "Not at all."
They sat quietly for a moment, the kind of silence that did not ask to be filled.
"How's your weekend?" Ryan asked eventually.
Elena thought for a moment. "Calm. Which is nice."
Ryan nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."
They talked without agenda, drifting from books to classes to the strange relief of not having to be anywhere immediately. Elena listened carefully, responding thoughtfully, and Ryan found himself matching her pace without effort.
At one point, she laughed softly at something he said, and the sound felt unforced, natural, like it belonged there.
As the afternoon eased into early evening, they stood and walked back toward the dorm paths together, neither of them rushing.
At the intersection where they split, Elena paused. "Today was… easy."
Ryan smiled. "Yeah. It was."
She waved and headed off, and Ryan stood there for a moment longer before turning back.
When he returned to his room that night, Ben was stretched across his bed, scrolling lazily through his phone.
"You look settled," Ben said.
Ryan considered that. "I think I am."
Ben nodded. "We should do nothing more often."
Ryan laughed softly and sat at his desk, reviewing the day without pressure.
A quiet clarity surfaced in his mind, gentle and unintrusive.
[FATED LOVER SYSTEM – STATUS UPDATE]Skill Unlocked:Cooking (Lv.1)
The panel faded almost immediately.
Ryan leaned back, not surprised and not excited, simply acknowledging what he had already felt in his hands and choices throughout the day.
He had not chased progress.
He had simply lived the day properly.
As night settled in and the hostel grew quiet again, Ryan realized that this version of life did not feel like something he needed to escape from.
It felt like something he could stay inside, without rushing, without apologizing for taking up space.