Moments of joy, sorrow, or quiet routine, I still find myself immersed in the memories of my middle school in China. At the time, each day felt repetitive, almost indistinguishable from the next. However, looking back now after two years in Canada, I realize those days have become the threads that wove together the fabric of who I am.

With a sudden rush, the morning sunlight streamed through the window of my home in Beijing, China. Its golden rays spilling across the room like liquid warmth, casting soft patterns on the walls and floor and gently pulling me out of sleep.

“Time to get up,” my mom said as she drew open the curtains.

“En,” I murmured, shielding my eyes with my hand.

Fully dressed in my white uniform, with hints of yellow accents, I dragged my sleepy body into my father’s car and closed my eyes. The gentle cocoon of the car and the soft air from the vents always seemed to dissolve every trace of tension from the morning rush.

Through blurry vision, the school gate came into view beyond the car window. I clasped the door shut behind me and walked toward the track. The morning breeze brushed against my cheeks with a faint chill, stirring thoughts of the day’s classes. Suddenly, a blow to my backpack jolted me forward, almost knocking me over.

“Heeeeeeeeey!” he shouted.

I quickly turned around and tried to hit back. Unfortunately, he had already run away and laughed: “Haha, you cannot catch me.”

These little games were not only playful, but also the heartbeat of a close friendship. I remember feeling a mix of irritation and laughter, but behind it was a sense of belonging and joy that made school mornings something to look forward to.

Once we had finished breakfast, we returned to the classroom where most of my classmates had already arrived. Some chatted in groups while others hurried to finish homework. In that moment, the busy and noisy classroom pulsed with life, a scene that has stayed with me ever since.

“Did you hear that couple in Class 1 had a fight?” I approached my friend and lowered my voice.

“Really? What happened?” He asked excitedly.

Just as I was about to continue talking, the teacher walked in as the school bell began to chime. The music played in a set of repeating rhythms. It was not particularly beautiful, but it has lingered vividly in my mind. The shared rhythm signaled a shared goal with the rush of footsteps and the laughter echoing throughout the stairwell.

Time breezed through the four classes in the day. As class was coming to an end, the teacher assigned homework, my eyes stayed on the clock above the podium. The second hand crept toward twelve, and the quiet impatience of the room hung in the air. Looking back, I wish I could have pinned down the hand of that clock, stretching that small suspense until it felt as lasting as the recess we eagerly awaited.

Finally, the bell rang, and students flew out of the classroom like arrows released from the bowstring, rushing down the stairs and across the playground, many heading straight for the dining hall.

By the time I reached the dining hall, a few classmates had already lined up ahead of me. We filed in one by one, paying with facial recognition before collecting our trays. I chose the beef noodles, as always. Each slurp carried a rich umami flavor, tender and comforting, and the warmth spread through me until it curved into a quiet grin. Soon, my friend arrived and sat across from me. Though the clear acrylic dividers kept us apart, the simple act of eating together filled the space with life. After the meal, we slid our trays into the return bucket, dishes stacked neatly as if gathering the traces of those days along with the scraps of sauce.

At the time, I thought I was simply moving through routines: car rides, bells, pranks, noodles. But now I see they were more than routines. They were fragments of belonging, resilience, and joy, so small I almost overlooked them, yet so lasting that they remain with me still.

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