2025-07-17 23:10:36
2025-07-17 02:47:23
2025-07-17 02:47:23
10187987
In Between: A Week of Small, Sweet Moments
I’ve been trying to pay more attention to the “in-between” times lately—the spaces between work deadlines and grocery runs that usually blur together. Last Tuesday to Sunday had some of those moments that make you pause and think, “Hey, that was nice.” Here’s how it unfolded.
A Tuesday Morning That Defied Routine
I normally roll out of bed at 7:15, throw on clothes, and bolt for the bus, but Tuesday’s alarm didn’t go off. Panic first (of course), then relief when I checked the time—only 10 minutes late, and the next bus came in 15. So I slowed down. I actually brushed my hair instead of shoving it into a ponytail, and made oatmeal with blueberries that popped when I stirred them, instead of grabbing a granola bar.
As I ate, I noticed the way sunlight hit my kitchen wall, making the dust motes dance. My neighbor’s kid, Leo, was outside, yelling at his dog to “come back!”—the dog, a golden doodle named Charlie, was ignoring him, chasing a butterfly. I laughed, loud enough that Leo looked up and waved. By the time I caught the bus, I was still a little late, but I didn’t mind. The driver even winked and said, “Better late than stressed, right?”
Thursday’s Rainy Afternoon Detour
Work ended early Thursday, thanks to a power glitch in the office. The sky had opened up by then, rain slashing down in thick sheets, so I ducked into a bookstore downtown I’d never visited: “Read Between the Lines.” The owner, a woman with silver braids, was stacking books on a shelf labeled “Rainy Day Reads.” “Need something cozy?” she asked. I nodded, and she pressed a copy of The House in the Cerulean Sea into my hands. “Trust me. It’s like a warm hug.”
I bought it, plus a hot chocolate that came in a mug so big my hands wrapped around it perfectly. I found a window seat, where rain streamed down the glass, and started reading. An hour later, I looked up—surprised by how fast time had gone—and realized the rain had stopped, leaving a rainbow over the parking lot. The owner smiled when I left. “See you when you finish it,” she said. I already can’t wait.
Saturday’s Market Finds and Messy Baking
Saturday mornings usually mean laundry and meal prep, but this week, I hit the farmers’ market instead. It’s a small one, set up in the park, with vendors yelling about their “world’s best strawberries” and kids chasing each other through the aisles. I bought a bunch of those strawberries—juicy, sun-warmed, still with a little dirt on them—and a loaf of crusty bread that smelled like rosemary.
By afternoon, I was inspired to bake. I dug out my mom’s old recipe for strawberry shortcake, the one with her handwriting in the margins: “Add extra vanilla. Trust me.” The biscuits turned out lopsided (I never could get the dough right), but the strawberries? I mashed some with sugar, and they turned into this sweet, syrupy mess that oozed over the biscuits. I ate a slice standing at the counter, crumbs everywhere, and saved a piece for my roommate, who texted 10 minutes later: “Did you put crack in this? It’s amazing.”
Sunday Evening’s Quiet Symphony
Sunday nights usually feel like a countdown to Monday, but this one was different. I skipped scrolling through my phone and lit a candle—vanilla, my favorite—and put on an old playlist, the kind with songs I haven’t heard since college. I folded laundry, but slowly, pausing to sing along to a Taylor Swift song I’d forgotten I loved.
My roommate joined me halfway through, bringing a bowl of popcorn. We sat on the floor, legs crossed, and talked about nothing—how her date went (good, apparently), how my strawberry shortcake was “life-changing,” when we should plant herbs on the balcony. The candle burned down to a nub, and by 9 p.m., the laundry was folded, the popcorn was gone, and I didn’t feel that familiar Sunday dread.
It’s funny, isn’t it? These weren’t big moments—no trips, no milestones—just small, unplanned ones. But they added up to a week that felt… full. I’m starting to think that’s the good stuff.
A Tuesday Morning That Defied Routine
I normally roll out of bed at 7:15, throw on clothes, and bolt for the bus, but Tuesday’s alarm didn’t go off. Panic first (of course), then relief when I checked the time—only 10 minutes late, and the next bus came in 15. So I slowed down. I actually brushed my hair instead of shoving it into a ponytail, and made oatmeal with blueberries that popped when I stirred them, instead of grabbing a granola bar.
As I ate, I noticed the way sunlight hit my kitchen wall, making the dust motes dance. My neighbor’s kid, Leo, was outside, yelling at his dog to “come back!”—the dog, a golden doodle named Charlie, was ignoring him, chasing a butterfly. I laughed, loud enough that Leo looked up and waved. By the time I caught the bus, I was still a little late, but I didn’t mind. The driver even winked and said, “Better late than stressed, right?”
Thursday’s Rainy Afternoon Detour
Work ended early Thursday, thanks to a power glitch in the office. The sky had opened up by then, rain slashing down in thick sheets, so I ducked into a bookstore downtown I’d never visited: “Read Between the Lines.” The owner, a woman with silver braids, was stacking books on a shelf labeled “Rainy Day Reads.” “Need something cozy?” she asked. I nodded, and she pressed a copy of The House in the Cerulean Sea into my hands. “Trust me. It’s like a warm hug.”
I bought it, plus a hot chocolate that came in a mug so big my hands wrapped around it perfectly. I found a window seat, where rain streamed down the glass, and started reading. An hour later, I looked up—surprised by how fast time had gone—and realized the rain had stopped, leaving a rainbow over the parking lot. The owner smiled when I left. “See you when you finish it,” she said. I already can’t wait.
Saturday’s Market Finds and Messy Baking
Saturday mornings usually mean laundry and meal prep, but this week, I hit the farmers’ market instead. It’s a small one, set up in the park, with vendors yelling about their “world’s best strawberries” and kids chasing each other through the aisles. I bought a bunch of those strawberries—juicy, sun-warmed, still with a little dirt on them—and a loaf of crusty bread that smelled like rosemary.
By afternoon, I was inspired to bake. I dug out my mom’s old recipe for strawberry shortcake, the one with her handwriting in the margins: “Add extra vanilla. Trust me.” The biscuits turned out lopsided (I never could get the dough right), but the strawberries? I mashed some with sugar, and they turned into this sweet, syrupy mess that oozed over the biscuits. I ate a slice standing at the counter, crumbs everywhere, and saved a piece for my roommate, who texted 10 minutes later: “Did you put crack in this? It’s amazing.”
Sunday Evening’s Quiet Symphony
Sunday nights usually feel like a countdown to Monday, but this one was different. I skipped scrolling through my phone and lit a candle—vanilla, my favorite—and put on an old playlist, the kind with songs I haven’t heard since college. I folded laundry, but slowly, pausing to sing along to a Taylor Swift song I’d forgotten I loved.
My roommate joined me halfway through, bringing a bowl of popcorn. We sat on the floor, legs crossed, and talked about nothing—how her date went (good, apparently), how my strawberry shortcake was “life-changing,” when we should plant herbs on the balcony. The candle burned down to a nub, and by 9 p.m., the laundry was folded, the popcorn was gone, and I didn’t feel that familiar Sunday dread.
It’s funny, isn’t it? These weren’t big moments—no trips, no milestones—just small, unplanned ones. But they added up to a week that felt… full. I’m starting to think that’s the good stuff.