I kick off the curb, the cool morning air rushing past as I pedal down the quiet suburban street, my bag slung over my shoulder, heavy with newspapers. The neighborhood is still waking up—windows dark, houses still. The only sounds are the occasional rustle of trees and the soft hum of my bike tires on the asphalt.

I glide past rows of tidy houses, each with its perfectly manicured lawn, aiming for the next driveway. With practiced ease, I grab a newspaper from the bag, flick it in a tight spiral, and watch as it lands neatly on the doorstep. Another house checked off.

The sun is starting to peek over the rooftops, casting a warm glow on the sleepy streets. It’s peaceful, the world still half-asleep, and I kind of like the quiet. There’s something about these early mornings that makes me feel like I have the whole neighborhood to myself, like I’m the only one moving through time while everyone else is paused.

I round the corner, tossing another paper as I go, and that’s when I spot you—my friend, leaning against the fence of your yard. Your hands were shoved in your jacket's pockets, your bike propped up next to you, like you've been waiting for me. I smirk, slowing down as I approach.