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This morning began like many others,
quiet steps, small routines,
a body already a little tired
before the world even asked anything of it.
The day started with simple, hands-on tasks.
Shoes to arrange,
small responsibilities to carry.
I reached for hangers,
helped where I could,
doing my part in quiet ways that often go unseen.
Work unfolded in fragments.
There were tasks to complete
math, words, colours
things that should have felt light
but were carried in a heavier atmosphere.
Voices rose around me,
...

This morning began quietly, before the sun fully rose.
There was something steady in the routine, something grounding.
But the world outside felt different.
A near miss. A messy space.
Moments that felt rushed, slightly off, a little overwhelming.
Yet, the day did not stay heavy.
There were small kindnesses.
A drink given. A seat shared.
Soft conversations that made the journey feel less lonely.
There were also moments that stung a little.
A harsh tone. A look. A feeling of being unseen.
But instead of...

I woke before the sun,
in a house already moving.
The sound of water,
of chores already begun,
of expectations carried in the air
before I could even fully breathe.
I moved through the morning
like a quiet routine
brush, fold, pack, bathe, eat
trying to do everything right
before the day could question me.
But even small decisions
became something to be measured.
So I stepped out
into a world already awake.
A bus ride
a sudden hit at the side
a moment of shock
then stillness again
I am safe, I reminded myself
...

This morning began with small acts of care.
I woke up, prepared my medicine, brushed my teeth, and tried to move gently into the day. Even the little things felt like effort, but I still showed up for myself.
There were moments that felt uncomfortable.
The bus ride was uneasy, with someone coughing beside me. I walked through crowded spaces, searched for a simple watch repair, and felt watched, rushed, and slightly out of place. Still, I found my way. Step by step.
At home, words were heavier.
Not...

This morning began gently,
though the throat carried a quiet ache.
There was routine
brushing teeth, preparing breakfast,
small movements that felt almost automatic,
as if the body remembered what to do
even when the heart was elsewhere.
Smoke from a joss stick curled into the air,
a quiet prayer offered without many words.
Somewhere in between the ordinary,
something shifted.
A presence that had once been constant
fell silent.
No explanation,
no closing sentence
just a space where something used to be.
It...

This morning began quietly,
with small routines held together
by effort more than ease.
The body moved,
even when it didn’t feel like it could.
Step by step—
to the sink,
to the kitchen,
to the quiet act of preparing something warm.
There was discomfort,
the kind that lingers in the chest
and rises in coughs that do not ask for permission.
Even the hand carried a dull reminder
of healing that has not yet finished.
Still, the day continued.
Clothes were folded.
Plans were made for another day ahead.
Medicine...

Today began with discomfort before the sun was fully awake.
My body felt uneasy — waves of nausea rising and falling like a restless tide. Even brushing my teeth became difficult, and breakfast would not stay.
The morning turned into a quiet journey to the hospital. The corridors were filled with many different stories — an elderly woman with a fracture, a man in pain, another patient waiting for a scan. In that observation room, strangers shared the same fragile space between sickness and...

I woke before dawn with fever and nausea, my body reminding me that it needed care.
Even so, I prepared breakfast and stepped into the morning, carrying both exhaustion and determination.
At work, kind voices noticed my hoarse voice and encouraged me to see a doctor.
Soon I found myself at the polyclinic, answering questions and undergoing tests while quietly hoping for answers.
The diagnosis came: an infection my body was fighting.
Two days of rest were prescribed — a reminder that healing is...

In secret kitchens, two hearts align,
A chef and a friend, a bond divine.
With flavors and tunes, they weave a spell,
Together they create, a story to tell.

In whispered recipes, emotions unfold,
A connection deep, worth more than gold.
Their dance in the dark, with music so fine,
A sweet serendipity, only they define.

Today did not arrive wrapped in perfect ribbons or quiet moments. It came with a tired body, crowded buses, laughter that felt a little too loud, and feelings that moved up and down like waves. Yet somewhere between the chaos, I remembered something important. Love is not only found in grand gestures or romantic stories. Sometimes love looks like showing up anyway, taking a deep breath, holding your own bag a little closer, or choosing kindness even when your heart feels heavy.
This Valentine’...

Morning rose before the sun
with warnings, noise, and heavy words.
Buses brushed past fragile space,
laughter cut where silence lived.
Hands reached when they should not,
eyes looked away when they should have stayed.
Small kindnesses came unevenly
one chocolate, one sweet, one soft voice.
My body spoke in aches and pain,
My heart kept translating the world.
I reported. I endured. I chose calm
even when calm was not offered.
And still
I walked myself home.
I cleaned the wounds.
I ate.
I rested.
This is not...

February always feels quieter than the other months.
It doesn’t rush.
It doesn’t demand grand resolutions or loud transformations.
It simply arrives—short, soft, and a little tender.
This month reminds me that not everything needs to bloom loudly to matter.
Some days in February feel heavy.
Some mornings begin with tired bones, unspoken emotions, and small misunderstandings that linger longer than they should. Other days surprise me—with warmth, with kindness, with moments that feel like quiet...

Under the hum of flickering lights,
a pen waits, trembling in its duty.
The air smells of paper and polish,
of stories sealed in quiet ink.

A chair creaks—truth takes its seat.
Words march out, hesitant soldiers,
each one carrying a fragment
of what the heart remembers.

The officer nods, steady as stone,
eyes tracing the path of confession.
Outside, sirens bloom like restless flowers,
their petals fading into distance.

When the final line is signed,
silence folds the room in half.
Somewhere between fear...

Dear 2026,
I arrive gently, carrying all that 2025 taught me.
I step forward with softer expectations and braver hope.
I choose patience over rushing, truth over pleasing, rest over proving.
May this year meet me with steadier mornings and kinder nights.
May my work be honest, my heart protected, and my creativity free.
I will listen to my body, honour my boundaries, and trust my quiet voice.
I welcome growth that doesn’t hurt, success that doesn’t cost my peace,
and love that feels safe, mutual, and...

This year did not arrive with fireworks.
It came softly,
in mornings that asked me to wake anyway,
in bus rides where rain blurred the city
and my thoughts followed.
I learned that strength does not always speak.
Sometimes it listens.
Sometimes it stays.
Sometimes it chooses not to explain.
There were days I felt too much
and days I felt not enough.
I carried both.
I learned to place them side by side
without demanding they cancel each other out.
I wrote even when words trembled.
I rested even when guilt...

This morning began with pain and dizziness, and I found myself calling for medical help. I went to the hospital alone, feeling a mix of fear and relief. The tests came back alright, and I was discharged with medicine and a reminder to take things slowly. Along the way, I still managed to help someone who needed translation, even while feeling unwell.
Now I’m home, tired but grateful that I chose to seek treatment and listen to my body. Some words today stung, and some moments felt...

Today, I realised that boundaries can create pain on both sides. I felt hurt when I heard the words “go, go, go,” but I also sensed that he was carrying his own weight and pressure. It wasn’t personal — just a moment where two people had different roles, different limits, and different feelings. I walked away still caring, still learning, and trying to understand that sometimes respect comes in quiet, imperfect ways.

This morning was whirlwind
I was at home alone
My mum was out running errands
She came back with our lunch and some stuff
I ate and went out with her for my dental appointments
She was harsh and fierce
I was very tired
The dentist made me uncomfortable
Asking questions
Checking all my teeth
Pulling my mouth
I was feeling anxious
Pulling away
Communication with mum was challenging
I bought my bread for tomorrow
I went away to the printing shop without telling my mum
People laughed and avoided me
I board...

I deleted the message.
Not out of anger,
but because my heart
deserves a softer room.

They sent a video
to call me dance monkey,
typed my name
like a punchline.
I said, Stop it,
and when “sorry” came,
I still chose peace
over replay.

This is not overreacting.
This is my quiet no.
My small, sacred shield.

At night,
Mum speaks before sleep,
a few brief words
held between dramas and sighs.
I answer anyway.
Somewhere under the sharpness
there is still a thread,
and I am the one
who keeps it from breaking.

Aidah does not...

This morning began quietly — the kind of quiet that sits softly in the bones. I stepped out with a simple reminder from home: wear a mask, many people are sick. So I carried that small care with me onto the buses, watching the day slowly unfold through moving windows.

Along the way, the world felt a little sharp. People bumped into me, laughed near me, kept their distance. Some moments were just clumsy accidents, others were strange and confusing. I reminded myself that not every sound belongs...