It’s the way Sunday morning feels, aloft, everything else in the world suspended. You wake up to the tickle of sunshine, to a serene stillness occasionally rippled by faint snoring from the silky silhouette besides you. You can’t help but smile at the memory of last night as you tiptoe around the mess on the floor, almost tripping on her knickers.
Your coffee machine buzzes 7am and a velvety aroma fills your living room. Your thoughts darts to next week’s work, but you push aside the anticipation. This is a treasured moment of respite. You open the blinds and nest yourself in the nook by the window and the room basks in Sunlight, like a dream preserved in amber.
You absentmindedly pick up your phone, eyes peering at the street below, head filled space, flipping between email and text, more out of habit than urgency. The glass felt cool against your forehead. You look at your phone again – newsletter, ads, an article from mum, friends confirming lunch today at noon.
It’s the day you’re anchored, and everything around you becomes home.
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