Sundays always hit different.
Heavy in the chest.
Light in the hours.
Like time is doing that slow-motion stretch before it snaps back into place.
When I was a kid, it always started with the Rugrats theme song.
That strange little synth melody.
Those cartoon footsteps.
That baby-world heartbeat that somehow made everything feel okay for twenty-two minutes.
I’d sit there on the carpet.
Cereal getting soggy.
Legs dangling.
Trying to soak up every second before Monday found me again.
Some mornings, I’d wake up early and sit next to the heater.
Not because I was cold.
Because the warmth made the house feel like it was still on my side.
Because the second that theme song faded out,
I could feel the truth creeping in.
School.
The bell.
The backpack that felt too big.
The week that felt too long.
The quiet dread wrapped around my ribs like a seatbelt I didn’t ask for.
Some songs don’t end.
They just teach you what silence is going to feel like.
And the thing no one tells you is
that feeling doesn’t disappear when you grow up.
It just changes costumes.
Sundays still have that same ache.
That same countdown.
That same whisper.
Don’t blink. Monday is coming.
So I try to end them right.
Give them softness.
A ritual.
A walk.
A drink.
A moment where the world feels like the last warm light through the blinds.
It’s my adult version of waiting for the Rugrats theme to play again.
That tiny comfort.
That fragile illusion that the world can pause.
That nothing bad starts until the music stops.
And maybe that’s the truth we never outgrow.
We’re all still trying to craft one good moment before the week begins.
One small pocket of peace.
One held breath before life swings the door open.
Sundays aren’t endings.
They’re negotiations.
A quiet deal we make with ourselves.
I’ll step into the noise tomorrow.
Tonight, I choose softness.
// Scorpio Veil