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This morning began gently, with honey offered across the table. A question about dinner lingered in the air, simple yet thoughtful.

I missed one bus, then another, before finally boarding. In the toilet, my door was slammed again and again — sharp interruptions that I carried quietly. Crossing the road, I ran; in the lift and on the stairs, I moved with steady rhythm. A bicycle passed too close, and I shifted aside just in time.

On the bus, someone sat with me and asked about my family. Their...

Dinner was a quiet bowl of noodles, warmth in the midst of a day that pressed in small ways.
An arm, faintly green with bruise, carried its own silence.
The house filled with footsteps and rebuke
walking in and out, space asked but not given.
Two tablets rested in my hand, a reminder to care for myself.
And after the swallow, after the stillness,
the body began to ease.
Better. A little lighter.

This morning, I woke on my own. A small sweetness of honey after brushing, a bath, a breakfast — and still, the ache of almost-tears. My stomach hurt; I pressed oil against the pain before stepping out. On the bus, I carried myself quietly. The toilet doors slammed, the smell turned my stomach, the lift brought me down, and I sat quickly before another could. Small routines, sharp edges.

On the ride, someone joked “boss let boss.” I offered a greeting, but another refused to meet my eyes —...

The morning began too loud.
The vacuum roared before I was ready,
not out of necessity, but out of control
a reminder that her timing always comes first.

I dropped the small cover of gouqizi,
prepared my drink, packed my water bottle,
and rushed through teeth, bath, breakfast,
before stepping into the world.

Bus 28 carried me forward.
When I alighted, I bumped into someone
an accident, not intention
but still, my hand turned red,
an echo of impact,
a reminder of how life pushes back hard
when I am only...

Morning water, unboiled,
a reminder to ask before taking,
before sipping from what is shared.
The clock whispered too late,
though I had already risen,
bathed, eaten,
and stepped into the doorway
where she stood, watching,
sending me off in silence.

Bus wheels carried me forward.
A stranger slammed a door,
another gaze lingered too long.
Between the lift and the stairs,
an old woman in her chair descended,
guided by steady hands.
And on my phone —
a wandering insect,
as if to test my patience.
I blew it away,
...

This morning began not with calm, but with the roar of a vacuum before my day had even started. Yesterday I had carried that task for someone else, and yet today it returned, louder, insistent. Instructions followed quickly — “Throw outside.” “Wear shoes outside.” “Take out your Ezlink card.” Even while I was already moving.

And then, outside:

A bird flew at me, and I covered my ears.

A toilet door slammed, startling me.

Someone brushed my shoe without apology.

Laughter echoed — not meant for me,...

The morning began with cake offered —
a mix of sweetness in the midst of flu, cough, and sore throat.
I said “Ok” anyway.
Medicine swallowed, voice cracking,
but my mother’s reminder lingered:
“Drink more water.”

The vacuum roared before I left,
yet I still stepped out —
onto bus 28, into the day.

At the overhead bridge,
the bicycle’s hum, the rush across the road —
my body carried me forward.
Someone sat apart,
but her mother smiled,
and in that moment, I leaned closer,
chose conversation, chose...

Last night, a sound too sharp —
a phone set down, mistaken for anger.
Morning arrives with cold, clammy hands and feet,
and the hum of a vacuum too early,
stirring emotions before the day even begins.

The streets rush past me —
a boy running, a bicycle sweeping close,
the red light ignored as I cross anyway,
lifts and stairs tracing my path
into a brisk walk toward the day.
When I sit, someone shifts away,
distance drawn without a word.

On the bus, a small warmth —
a greeting returned,
a fist bump, a high...

This morning, I carried nausea, fever, flu, and cough in my body. Medicine taken, yet the weight lingers like a cloud that refuses to lift. Mum asked quietly about pads. I told myself I would share when needed, not before.

Breakfast offered a moment of grounding, then I stepped into the flow of the world. Bus 28 arrived, and someone pushed me aside — a sting of sharpness in an already tender morning. In the toilet, the door slammed again and again, an impatient echo that rattled my calm....

This morning,
my chest carried flu, cough, and nausea,
medicine swallowed like small anchors.
Beside me, another voice spoke of a flu too —
perhaps the hospital air still lingered in our lungs.

Bus 28 hummed its usual song.
A man rose before me,
my step brushed against a stranger’s shoes,
her hand struck my bag, sharp and wordless.
The toilet door banged shut against silence,
stairs and lifts carried me toward
the waiting place of routine.

At work,
I saw embraces not mine to claim:
two figures folded into...

Today I let something new swim into the world
a dolphin leaping over waves of lavender and blue,
its heart carrying both freedom and love.

I didn’t force it,
didn’t try to control how others might see it.
I simply shaped it with soft hands,
and let it flow.

Like the tide,
some things are meant to rise and fall naturally.
What matters is that in this moment,
I created,
I smiled,
I set a little piece of joy free.

This morning began with laughter —
a smile rising early at six,
though work did not call me,
only errands waiting quietly ahead.

A message came,
a simple promise of tomorrow’s meeting,
and I carried it with me like a light.
Still, the thought of cut wages
pressed like a stone in my pocket.

Outside, the rain was heavy.
I took a car instead of the bus,
the driver preferring silence
while I sat with my thoughts,
watching the city blur behind the window.

At the clinic,
doors closed for cleaning, ladders...

The corridors smelled of antiseptic and quiet worry.
I stood by the bedside, voice soft,
but my heart loud enough to tremble through the walls.

He turned away,
eyes closed in delirium,
rejecting food, rejecting sound.
And yet—
he ate.
A spoon of rice,
a slice of sugar roll,
a sip of soya bean.
Small, fragile victories hidden in the fog.

Her words cut,
sharp and sudden,
blaming, reminding,
saying my shout left me sore.
But my voice was never malice.
It was ache,
it was survival,
it was love trying to be heard.

...

This morning began with voices.
A live stream spoke of respect and positivity,
while the house reminded me of silence.
A comment on hair,
a hand on my back,
a seat chosen wrong.
Even the bus became a mirror
of what others could not accept.

At the hospital,
I carried my longing,
and it was called strange.
I carried my voice,
and it was called nagging.
But my father’s words
cut through the noise:
Keep the good. Ignore the nonsense. Relax.
He told me to look after myself,
and I heard:
“Lay the weight down.”

Later,...

This morning, the house stirred early. My mum reminded me to be careful as she washed the toilets, then told me to take my things and go out before she started the vacuum cleaner. She mentioned buying fish porridge for me, though pig liver soup was too heavy. Between words, she reminded me again to brush up my speaking and vocabulary — lessons tucked into ordinary mornings.

On bus 28, I carried my thoughts with me. After alighting, I used the toilet, though the door kept banging as I tried to...

This morning, I spoke of a small thing — oil for comfort, something my father wanted.
But my words were brushed aside, called a copy, unworthy of notice.
The vacuum roared before I was ready, and the air carried the sharpness of dismissal.
I tied my socks, counted coins for lunch, and stepped out into the street of moving mornings.

On the bus, I brushed against strangers, offering quiet apologies.
A bag struck my wrist — a small ache that lingered.
When pressed aside at the door, I stayed silent,...

This morning began with a pen on my table.
A small thing, yet it sparked words sharper than I wished.
I shifted it anyway, quietly,
and stepped into the day with a late breakfast.

I ran for the bus, breath chasing time.
At the crossing, a couple held hands,
their quiet bond a contrast to my hurried feet.
The red man flickered and I quickened,
choosing motion over stillness.
At the lift, a boy reached for the same seat.
“Excuse me,” I whispered.
He smiled, and turned away
softness instead of struggle.
On...

This morning, the sound of the vacuum roared before I was ready,
a reminder that sometimes the house runs on rules
I never asked for.
She said the machine would start again early next week,
and I held the quiet ache of wanting porridge,
but hearing only “vegetable rice.”
She reminded me that everyone needs care,
and even late minutes would cost money.

I rushed for bus 28,
breathing thanks to the driver who waited.
When I stepped off, a stranger’s hand brushed mine
a bump, a separation,
a small moment I...

The day began with aches I could not hide
a stomach unsettled, a trace of red in my breath.
I spoke of it, yet silence and distance greeted me.
Boundaries were drawn, doors closed,
and I found myself leaving early,
carrying both heaviness and resolve.

The sky held its usual rush.
Bus 29 waited for me
a brief kindness from a driver’s pause.
I whispered thanks,
watched uniforms pass,
and learned again how eyes can turn away.

A bump, a sorry,
a bicycle bell, a quick dodge,
a stranger’s thank you
these fleeting...

The rain fell heavy in the morning,
and she went out early to buy lunch and dinner.
She spoke of courses, of skills to be learned,
of money that must be saved,
of how I must think of them before myself.
Her foot brushed mine by accident,
yet when I spoke of it, she said,
“Don’t anyhow say.”
Her voice sharp, her hands busy,
always carrying too much.

A message arrived—
a friend posting photos of us online,
asking if I liked them,
calling me “dear friend.”
I said yes,
and quietly changed my phone to a fairy...