As the kettle begins to murmur, I decide to make instant noodles. There is no special reason: sunlight falls well outside, the room has become quiet, and hunger has started its small song.
The noodle cake drops into the bowl with a soft sound. Seasoning opens into the air. While the water heats, a jar of instant coffee catches my eye like an old friend. I stir a spoonful into hot water and leave the dark fragrance waiting beside me.
Milk and cream warm together. I do not measure carefully; feeling says when it is enough. Twenty seconds in the processor turns the mixture into light foam. Poured over the coffee, it makes an imperfect but pleasing pattern. Happiness appears briefly in texture, fragrance, and care.
Flow is often described as the joy born from complete attention, when time becomes transparent. We look for happiness at summits and distant coasts, yet it often hides in ordinary acts that barely seem worth naming.
Three minutes pass. Steam rises from the noodles; their texture is just right. The coffee is warm, sunlight remains across the table, and nothing else is required.
I once thought happiness belonged to some far bank. Now it may be noodles cooked well, coffee balanced by instinct, and an afternoon treated with care. Yesterday and tomorrow easily pull us away, but this moment is time's gentlest gift. Happiness has been beside us all along, waiting for us to stop and notice.
