Most mornings, I woke up to the sound of vehicles rushing past the street that connected my apartment to the main road. And like clockwork, I'd begin to rush too. Six to seven o’clock was always a blur. But not on weekends. Especially Sundays, when I could move slower, watch my surroundings, and take my time waking up.

Like every other Sunday, I let myself linger, watching her sleep on my pillow. She looked peaceful, her usual permafrown smoothed by slumber. My gaze drifted around the cramped room—twin bed, a cupboard, a dresser, a smaller cupboard, racks of barely worn shoes, and a lone chair where her denim pants and jacket had been haphazardly thrown. I sighed before sliding back down beside her.

"Oi," I murmured, checking if she was awake. No response. "Oi," I tried again, nudging her bare arm. Still nothing. "Oiiiiii," I drawled, giving her another poke. This time, she stirred, letting out a quiet grunt.

"Tsk. I was having a nice dream," she mumbled, slowly blinking awake.

"What about?" I asked, tracing the curve of her elbow with my fingertips. "They say whatever you dream of during the day comes...