This morning began slower, softer.
I woke up at 7am, after about 7 hours and 20 minutes of sleep.
There was a quiet rhythm to everything — preparing gouqizi and matcha, brushing my teeth, bathing, getting ready step by step.
My mum went out for a while while I was in the middle of my routine.
I took out my own breakfast — a sardine puff — and ate on my own.
There was a small craving for McDonald’s,
but I let it pass.
Not everything needs to be acted on.
The morning felt calm.
Simple.
Manageable.

Later,...

The morning began gently,
with a message carried through care.
If it rains, close the window.
A small responsibility,
a quiet trust placed into my hands.
I woke at seven.
The house slowly came alive
the hum of the vacuum,
the soft rhythm of routine.
Gouqizi in a cup,
matcha swirling into green calm.
Clothes folded,
Tuesday prepared in advance,
as if reaching softly into the future.
There were small slips.
Ling zhi powder falling where it shouldn’t,
hands trying to gather what scattered.
Not everything stayed...

The morning began slowly, wrapped in heaviness.
Even the sound of the alarm felt distant, like something calling from far away.
It took time to rise.
Small routines followed—warm drinks, quiet preparation, familiar motions that gently carried the day forward.
Outside, the world felt a little crowded.
Movements crossed paths, bodies brushed past, moments slightly out of sync.
A step here, a bump there—nothing major, yet enough to be felt.
At the hospital, the air shifted.
Conversations became more...