Read it twice and the subject changes under you. It opens as a complaint about the clock. It closes as a question about where you were looking. Time was never the scarce thing.

You have the same twenty-four hours as the person whose year you envy. The supply did not shrink. What moved is where the attention goes in the seconds before you notice it leaving — the phone lifted on the MRT before the doors even close, the dashboard refreshed for a number that has not changed since the last refresh, the group chat checked between two tasks that both deserved the whole of you.

Here is the part that hides. The expensive things announce themselves. A hard conversation, a deadline, a decision you have been circling — they hand you an invoice, and you pay because you must. The cheap things never bill you. The scroll asks for nothing. The notification asks for nothing. And that is precisely why they take the most: nothing that costs you silently ever feels like a cost.

It is Sunday. The week has not started taking its cut. For one more morning the attention is still yours to assign rather than defend — which is the only morning of the week that is true.

So spend it on purpose. Pick one thing today and give it the undivided version of you — the book, the person across the kopitiam table, the work you keep meaning to think hard about. Phone in another room, not face-down on the table. The hour is not the gift. The attention you carry into it is.