Sundays always felt different. Quieter. Lighter. Maybe it was the slower pace of the day, or the soft calm that seemed to hang in the air after church.
By the time Mum and I got home, the sun was already high in the sky. Church had been longer than usual, and the afternoon warmth wrapped around the house like a gentle blanket.
I slipped off my shoes near the door while Mum headed straight for the kitchen.
"Go change," she said. "Lunch will be ready soon."
"Yes, ma."
I went upstairs, carefully hanging my church dress in the closet before putting on something more comfortable.
When I came back downstairs, the smell of food filled the entire house.
Mum had prepared rice with grilled chicken and a small bowl of vegetable sauce.
"You didn't have to cook all this," I said, sitting down.
She shrugged lightly.
"It's Sunday. We deserve real food."
We ate together quietly at first. Then the conversation began drifting—from church to the sermon, from the sermon to small neighborhood stories, and then to random things that didn't matter but still felt nice to talk about.
After lunch, Mum leaned back in her chair.
"I might sleep a little before work tonight."
I nodded.
"I'll be upstairs."
She gave me a tired smile.
"Try not to stress too much about school."
"I won't."
I headed upstairs and closed the door behind me.
My room felt peaceful. Sunlight filtered through the window curtains, casting warm patterns across my desk.
I sat on my bed and stretched slightly. Almost immediately, my mind drifted back to yesterday. Daniel's garage. The rehearsals.
Chris shouting dramatic lines like he was auditioning for a movie. Amanda's sarcastic commentary. Daniel trying to keep everything organized.
And Ethan. I found myself smiling slightly.
He had surprised all of us.
At first, he seemed like the quiet transfer student who would barely say two words. But during rehearsal? He had been… different. Focused. Thoughtful. Confident when delivering his lines. His character—Courage—fit him perfectly.
And then there were the moments I kept remembering. The eye contact. It happened a lot. Too much, actually.
Sometimes while someone else was speaking. Sometimes during the lines. Sometimes when we weren't even talking. Our eyes would meet for a second longer than normal. And then we'd both look away like nothing happened.
I sighed softly. Weird.
I leaned back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Then suddenly, I remembered something. The poem. Thursday evening, an idea had started forming in my mind, but I hadn't finished it. I quickly reached for my notebook on the bedside table and flipped to the page. The title sat at the top. 'Feelings.'
I picked up my pen and began writing again. Slowly. Carefully. The words flowed out quietly.
________________________
FEELINGS.
• Sitting, staring at the skies
• The horizon, where the skies and the earth lie
• We're faced with an unbalanced emotional well-being
• Springing forth a reaction, on which our personalities dwell in
• we're faced with challenges, shortcomings and obstacles
• While we think of what is to be done from our minds' Chronicles
• The aforementioned is a criteria of life, it's a reality
• But we don't mind, and are led by our curiosity
• What if there were no feelings?
• Will there be behaviours? Say your reasons
• I guess it's obvious, yes, it's quite lucid, y'all
• That our feelings clouds and defines us all
________________________
I stared at the finished poem for a moment. Then I closed the notebook slowly. Satisfied. After that, I grabbed my laptop from the desk and climbed back onto the bed. The screen lit up softly as I opened my usual tabs. First Pinterest.
Scrolling through writing inspiration, poetry aesthetics, and random quotes people designed with beautiful fonts.
Then Substack. I liked reading small essays and poems written by people who just wanted to share their thoughts with the world. Sometimes it felt comforting knowing there were others out there thinking deeply about the same things.
After a while, my eyes drifted away from the screen. My thoughts wandered again. This time, toward something older. Something familiar.
It had always been just Mum and me. Just the two of us in this house.
No dad. At least… not really.
When I was younger, I used to ask questions. Where he was. Why he never visited. Why it was always just Mum dropping me off at school events while other kids had both parents.
At first, Mum would just smile gently and change the topic. But on Thursday evening, when I was about before my friends came over, she finally told me. He had left. Not dramatically. Not with shouting or arguments. Just… left.
He had a job opportunity in another country and decided it was easier to start a new life than maintain the one he already had. At least that's how Mum explained it.
There were no bitter words when she talked about him. Just a quiet acceptance. She never tried to make me hate him. She never spoke badly about him.
She simply said, "Some people stay. Some people don't."
And then she kept moving forward. Working night shifts at the clinic. Taking care of me. Making sure the house always felt like a home even when life was exhausting.
Sometimes I wondered how hard that must have been. Doing everything alone. But she never complained. Not once.
My eyelids started feeling heavier.
The soft afternoon light, the quiet room, and the gentle hum of my laptop all blended together into a calm haze. My thoughts drifted lazily. From Mum. To school. To the project. To the rehearsals. And then, strangely enough... Back to Ethan.
The way he delivered his lines. The quiet confidence in his voice. And those moments when our eyes met.
Before I could think any further, my thoughts slowly dissolved into sleep. And the quiet Sunday afternoon carried me gently into dreams.