Chapter 8

Sundays always feel different.
Not in any dramatic way... just softer, slower, like someone turned down the world's volume a little.

When I opened my eyes, sunlight was already spilling across my floor. It was rare for me to sleep this late — normally I wake up before my alarm, out of habit from school days. For a moment, I stayed there, watching the dust motes drifting in the golden light.

Mom knocked on my door lightly before pushing it open.
"Yiyi? Are you awake?"

I sat up. "Mm. Just got up."

She chuckled. "I thought so. You're never this slow."

By the time I reached the kitchen, she had already prepared warm soybean milk and a plate of small steamed buns. The window was open, letting in a cool morning breeze.

"You're free today?" she asked, handing me chopsticks.

"Yes."

"You should relax. Maybe go out with Xia?"

"...She might ask later."

Mom smiled knowingly. "You always wait for her to invite you."

I lowered my eyes. "She's... better at deciding things."

We ate quietly after that. With other families, silence might feel uncomfortable — but with Mom, it was normal. Comfortable, even.

I spent the late morning cleaning my room — folding clothes, rearranging books, wiping the desk. When I watered the small succulent on my windowsill, I noticed it had grown a little. Somehow, that made me smile.

At noon, Xia's message popped up:
"Yiyi! Arcade? Tea? Shopping?"

I hesitated for a long moment before replying:
"I think I'll stay home today."

She sent three crying emojis.
Then:
"Fine. I'll send you pictures later."

I felt a little guilty — but only a little.

Around mid-afternoon, the house grew too quiet, even for me. So I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside.

The air was warm but not heavy, and the streets were lively in a gentle Sunday way — families eating noodles, kids chasing each other with bubble wands, the sound of bicycle bells in the distance.

I walked slowly, letting the sun warm the back of my neck.

Without planning to, I found myself near the small bookstore I liked.
Inside, the air smelled like paper and old wood.
I wandered through the aisles, fingers brushing over book spines.

A new romance novel was displayed near the front.
The cover was simple — two people walking side by side under a streetlamp.
I picked it up, flipping through the pages.

"Looking for something new today?" the shopkeeper asked.
She was an older woman with gentle eyes; she always remembered her regulars.

"Just browsing," I said.

She smiled. "You suit quiet stories."

I didn't know how to respond, so I just nodded slightly.

In the end, I bought the book — the quiet kind with soft emotions that sit in your chest for hours. The shopkeeper wrapped it carefully in brown paper.

On my way home, I passed a small family noodle restaurant I'd never noticed.
The windows were fogged from the steam; the inside looked warm and busy.

A young man moved behind the counter — carrying trays, wiping tables.
From where I stood, I couldn't see his face clearly.

I paused for a moment.
Just curiosity.
Just a passing thought.

Then I continued walking.

When I got home, Dad was back.
He greeted me with a soft "Welcome home," still reading his newspaper.
Mom was chopping vegetables for dinner.

"Can you wash these?" she asked.

I nodded and joined her.
The rhythm of water running over vegetables was oddly relaxing.
No loud conversations, no chaos — just the quiet kind of warmth.

After dinner, I showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and lay on my bed reading the book I bought.
The main character talked about wanting someone to share everyday moments with.
I paused at that line for longer than I meant to.

Later, I sat by my window, chin resting on my arms.

Outside, streetlights were flickering on one by one, painting the road in gentle amber.
People passed by — carrying takeout bags, chatting softly, calling children home.

A calm night.
Just like always.

Tomorrow would be Monday.
Another ordinary school day.

And that was fine.
Ordinary is comfortable.

For now.