The Quiet Between

Sunday.

Bitter cold. Wind howling. Rain sharp enough to threaten snow at any moment.

On Sundays, I always tell myself I’ll sleep in.

6 am. Wide awake.

There’s something beautiful about waking early when there is nowhere urgent to be. The day stretches out in front of me with no demands attached. I’ll lightly run through a few forms — enough to move, not enough to exhaust. Just to keep the body honest.

There was a time when days like this unsettled me. Empty space used to feel dangerous, as if I needed to fill it to justify my existence.

That has changed.

Now, days with very little drift by without resistance. They don’t need to prove anything.

Today will be simple. Pen on paper. A walk with the camera. Watching the world move in its own blur while I remain slow and steady within it.

It’s Chinese New Year’s Eve.

The school hums with activity — red posters pasted across doors and walls, wishes written boldly in black ink. We shared a long lunch, wine poured generously, laughter echoing between buildings. New year blessings exchanged with warmth and sincerity.

It was good.

Later I wandered into the city. It was quiet — the kind of quiet that only comes when people retreat inward to celebrate. The streets felt sleepy. Walking through them stirred a faint loneliness — not sharp, not painful. Just a soft awareness of standing slightly outside of everything.

Not good. Not bad.

Just honest.

The day passed like all days do — steadily, without drama.

And now, as the night settles, there is a deep quiet here.

The kind of quiet I’ve grown to love.