YOU ARE LOVED: The first bowl of cereal in the morning

When Panqiu opened her eyes, the room was dimly lit, not completely dark, but not exactly bright either.

There were no lights on the ceiling, only a sliver of gray-blue sunlight from outside the window, filtering through the gaps in the blinds and casting a narrow, soft band of light on the wall.

She subconsciously thought she had overslept—like someone who had taken an excessively long nap, waking up groggily with the first thought, "How late is it? This nap was really long," she thought to herself.

Suddenly, a soft bird call came from outside the window, followed by a second, then a third. The sound was so faint it was almost indistinct, yet it was like a thread, slowly pulling her up from the depths of her consciousness.

She paused for a moment, then reached under her pillow for her phone. The instant the screen lit up, she saw the time displayed: 5:02 AM.

She paused for a moment, stunned. She finally realized that she was not at home, not in her country, and not in a dream, but in a foreign city that was about to wake up—the place where she would live for five years.

She slowly sat up, the blanket slipping off her shoulders, a chill creeping up her arms. The movement stirred her back, making it ache a little.

She's been sleeping on the floor for the past few days. The floor is slightly cool, and there are faint creaks coming from the seams of the wood—like some old structure adapting to her movements and weight.

When they arrived at midnight, dragging their luggage through the door, the room was as empty as a warehouse. You could even hear the echo.

These past few days have been a painful struggle with jet lag, and it's definitely an unpleasant experience. Every day around 3 or 4 pm, my eyelids are drooping with sleep, and I wake up in the early hours of the next morning. Being able to sleep until 5 am today is a huge relief; I'm almost "surviving" this ordeal. She just hopes the bed she ordered online will arrive soon.

After washing her face, Panqiu felt a little more awake. She gently opened the door; the door opposite was still closed, so Zhiwei was probably still asleep. Their bedrooms were next to each other, separated by a shared bathroom.

She walked down the stairs, her footsteps making a soft sound as she stepped on the old wooden steps.

Downstairs is an open space where the kitchen, living room, and dining room are connected without any partitions, making it feel bright and simple.

At the far end of the kitchen is a huge floor-to-ceiling glass sliding door leading to the backyard. A small lawn lies quietly outside the door, surrounded by a waist-high wooden fence, like a kind of gentle and restrained freedom.

When she and Zhiwei first saw that door, they were both stunned. The door was so transparent that they could see the entire courtyard from the inside, along with the randomly appearing fireflies. Even the darkness of night couldn't block it, let alone people.

“This door… is really open…” Zhiwei said with a smile that day, but her tone sounded a little guilty.

She didn't respond, she just nodded.

Deep down, everyone knows: this kind of door keeps out honest people, not scoundrels. They just haven't said it out loud.

Panqiu thought of her home in China: a high-rise apartment building, a gated community, windows with explosion-proof film, and double locks on the balcony door. That was her parents' consistent style: a sense of security must be built up with physical security measures.

Now, things are really different; the kitchen leads directly to the world.

She stood in the kitchen, and only when the kettle began to gurgle softly did she feel truly awake.

The cereal was bought from a nearby American supermarket the day before yesterday. The milk was skim, and there were also sweet and sour blueberries. She slowly cooked the cereal in a small pot while pouring in the milk and stirring. Finally, she sprinkled the blueberries on top, making the colors look like they were staged for a photo.

She stared at the bowl and was suddenly enveloped by a strong sense of happiness.

This kind of breakfast certainly can't compare to the wide variety of options in Chinese school cafeterias, such as hot dry noodles, egg pancakes, and steamed buns, all lined up for you to choose from.

But this bowl of hot cereal has its advantages—it wasn't arranged by someone else, but cooked by herself. It's hot, soft, sweet and sour, and it gives her a sense of participation.

She sat down at the dining table and began to eat slowly. The kitchen was quiet; the sunlight outside the window wasn't fully bright yet, but the birdsong was already quite lively.

—It seemed like they were having a heated discussion about how to spend the day.

School hasn't officially started yet; the school has only arranged some procedural matters, such as taking photos, issuing ID cards, selecting courses, and getting vaccinated.

For the rest of the time, she and Zhiwei stayed at home, adjusting to the time difference, cooking, and trying to truly "live in" their new home.

The kitchen is where they spend most of their time lately. Strictly speaking, she and Zhiwei are now considered "kitchen partners"—whoever comes downstairs first and cooks first, the other will come over and comment, "Your eggs are a little burnt."

American supermarkets don't have a huge selection, but the produce is fresh; tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables are readily available.

The seasoning was a bit of a hassle, but luckily some senior students would send messages in the group: "Going to the Chinese Super League this weekend, want a ride?"

She and Zhiwei had just exchanged a quick reply, like they were scrambling for tickets, and then she happily prepared a shopping list, stocking up on light soy sauce, dark soy sauce, oyster sauce, and chili sauce. When she drove home that day, her trunk looked like a mini wholesale market for condiments.

She was initially very unaccustomed to the kitchen not having a range hood; even frying an egg would make her eyes sting from the fumes.

Later, I discovered that the floor-to-ceiling glass door at the far end of the kitchen also had a clever use—when there was a lot of smoke from cooking, I could just pull the door open, and the wind would rush in, causing the smoke to drift away, like a natural smoke extraction system. It's environmentally friendly, and you don't even need to clean the range hood.

An oven is a whole new world. It's easy to use; just set the time and temperature, and you can wait for it to "create" something on its own.

She had once baked prawns with butter and garlic, and the result was perfect – incredibly fragrant. They served it with white rice and some boiled lettuce; it was light, refreshing, and surprisingly delicious.

As she ate, she thought to herself: sometimes, the food I cook is even better than Michelin-starred meals—not because of technique, but because of the participation. Washing vegetables, seasoning, watching the bubbles slowly rise from the edge of the pot—that sense of "life happening" is something no takeout can provide.

Occasionally, when she's feeling lazy, she'll cook a bowl of tomato and egg noodles. It's simple to make, tastes familiar, and one bite makes her feel completely relaxed. It's as if life gently patted her on the shoulder and said: YOU ARE LOVED!