Sunday Morning Stillness Before the World Starts Again

The light filtering through these curtains is different. It doesn't carry that sharp, demanding edge of a workday alarm clock; it's soft, like honey dripping over the silence. I'm sitting here in white lace, feeling less like I need to be anywhere and more like this moment belongs entirely to me—and maybe him too.


Outside these walls, our city is already grinding its gears awake: sirens wailing down damp alleyways, subterranean trains rattling bones deep underground. But up here in the apartment we scraped together from overtime pay and shared takeout boxes, time seems to stretch out like warm dough on a kitchen counter.


The coffee cup sits waiting by his side of the bed, steam curling into that quiet air between us. I run my fingers over these intricate flowers stitched onto the fabric against my skin—they look fragile but hold strong just fine without needing anything else holding them up right now. And neither do we need big declarations or grand gestures today; sometimes it’s enough just knowing you're not alone in all this noise.

Editor: Alleyway Friend