In a quiet room, soft sunlight filtered through the window curtains, casting gentle shadows on the walls. A young man lay on his bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if searching for a hidden meaning among the barely visible cracks. His hands rested limply by his sides, but slowly, he grabbed the hem of his shirt, clutching it as if the fabric might hold answers to the emptiness inside him.
His face was expressionless, but his eyes carried a weight no one could see. He whispered to himself, his voice a faint echo in the room:
"Why this feeling?"
He sighed, closing his eyes briefly.
"It's like I'm adrift in an endless sea, floating aimlessly."
Opening his eyes again, the questions that had haunted him for days refused to rest. He felt as though everyone around him was happy, laughing, and smiling. Yet, behind those smiles, he suspected there was something else—like happiness itself was just a mask. His brows furrowed as he spoke to himself again:
"What's behind those smiles? Are they real? Or are they just masks hiding voids like the one I feel?"
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted, as if a voice inside him brought him back to reality. He turned his head slowly toward the clock on the wall, its hands pointing to 8:30 a.m. A faint hint of frustration crossed his face as he furrowed his brows, muttering to himself:
"8:30... The last day of the weekend, and class starts in thirty minutes."
He paused briefly before adding,
"Here I am again... drowning in my thoughts like I'm running from everything."
With a deep sigh, he murmured,
"I need to get up and get ready."
He pushed himself up from the bed, his mind still scattered. Standing slowly, he made his way toward the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, he let the cold water wash over his face. The chill on his skin brought a fleeting sense of clarity, as though he was regaining part of his awareness. After a few moments of rinsing his face, he lifted his head and looked into the mirror.
His dark brown hair was slightly messy from restless sleep, its strands falling unevenly over his forehead, telling the story of a long night of thinking. Despite his tired appearance, his physique showed strength. The muscles in his shoulders and arms were defined, a testament to regular exercise and care for his body. Yet he didn't seem to care much; he had grown accustomed to this image.
Afterward, he moved to the small corner of his room designated for working out. A pull-up bar was mounted above the doorframe. He grabbed the metal bar and prepared to lift himself. Pulling himself up slowly, he began counting aloud:
"One... two... three..."
With each repetition, he felt the strain in his shoulders intensify, yet he persisted. Each pull brought a burning sensation to his muscles, but it didn't deter him. By the fortieth repetition, his hands could no longer support his weight. He let himself drop gently to his feet, standing there for a moment, catching his breath slowly.
"What a good start to the day!" he said to himself with a faint smile, as if trying to convince himself of it.
Next, he moved on to crunches. Lying on the floor, he braced his feet under a heavy piece of furniture and began lifting his torso slowly. With each movement, he felt the tension in his core. His eyes closed, focusing solely on the exercise—on anything but the thoughts weighing him down since the morning.
"Four... five... six..."
His breaths grew heavy and uneven by the twentieth repetition. He paused, wiping the slight sweat on his forehead. "I guess I'll need to keep going for a while," he muttered, then moved straight to squats.
Standing upright, he slowly lowered himself, bending his knees as though sitting on an invisible chair.
"One... two... three..."
He counted aloud, but after twenty repetitions, fatigue began creeping into his body. Nonetheless, he finished the exercise with a faint smile, that fleeting moment of satisfaction, and then headed straight for a quick shower.
He made his way to the kitchen, quickly washing his hands. Grabbing two oranges, he squeezed them by hand, filling a small glass with fresh juice. Taking a sip, he savored the sweetness and refreshment, whispering,
"Hmm... tastes good."
Next, he picked up a small bowl and filled it with oats, pouring in a cup of warm milk. Leaving the oats to soak, he sliced some fresh fruits: a banana, an apple, and a handful of blueberries. He added the chopped fruits to the bowl of oats, sprinkling it with a touch of cinnamon and honey. Cracking two eggs into a small pan, he prepared a plate of scrambled eggs.
"Good enough to fuel me for the day," he said to himself with a simple nod.
Sitting down to eat his breakfast slowly, he observed the food in front of him as though reliving old memories with each bite. His eyes lingered on the details, as though cooking was more than just preparing a meal—it was a moment of quiet connection. A faint smile appeared on his lips as he sat in silence.
He whispered to himself in a low voice, "Cooking has always given me a special feeling, as if it's more than just a skill... maybe because I find something of the past in it." He didn't finish his thought, instead immersing himself in his meal as though those memories were infused in every bite.
While continuing to eat, he paused to reflect, "The dream of opening a pastry shop... maybe it's not just a fleeting dream."
Suddenly, the sound of his phone ringing interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at it on the table beside him, picked it up, and read the message. It was from his friend, Lucas:
"Hey, buddy! How's it going? Let's meet at the cafeteria we were at yesterday. I'll be waiting, don't be late."
He smiled faintly, placing the phone back on the table. But before he could take another bite, it buzzed again. Another message from Lucas:
"Oh, and I brought Doris Shay's Big Cookbook that we talked about."
After reading the message, he replied simply, "Alright, I'll be there."
Finishing the exchange, he stood up slowly and walked toward his wardrobe, searching for something suitable to wear. He settled on a simple white shirt and a pair of jeans, adding a light jacket to complete the look. Sliding into comfortable sneakers, he then grabbed his bag from his desk.
Before leaving his room, he paused for a moment and glanced around. This space had been his sanctuary, the place he retreated to when his thoughts grew overwhelming. But today, he resolved to step outside and meet Lucas, hoping to find something in the day that might help him make sense of his emotions.
He shut the door behind him and set off with steady steps toward the cafeteria.