It played as Yuna remembered walking out of a job that drained her soul. No drama. No goodbye cake. Just her, a cardboard box, and the automatic door sliding shut behind her. The lyrics hit: "I'm not your puppet anymore." She smiled. That was the day she decided to stop apologizing for wanting more.
When the last note faded, the rain had stopped. A thin slice of sunlight broke through the clouds, landing on her open journal. She picked up her pen and wrote:
The EP closed quietly, like a door clicking shut after a long night. No big finale. Just a piano and milet’s whisper: "These ordinary days are the ones I'll miss." Yuna looked around her small apartment — the mismatched chairs, the dying fern, the stack of unread novels. It wasn’t much. But it was hers.
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