Proud to share that my short story has been officially entered into the Next Generation Short Story Awards 2026 under the General Non-Fiction category.
It’s a quiet piece about resilience, heartbreak, and finding peace in the present moment — turning pain into light.
#ShortStoryAwards #CelineOng #AuthorJourney #CreativeWriting #QuietResilience #NextGenerationWriters
I woke in the middle of the night with an upset stomach, unable to sleep. Morning came heavy and slow. I laughed to myself remembering the diary my father once disapproved of — maybe I’ve always written too honestly. My mum was upset again; the flowers my grandmother bought were pulled from the soil, and harsh words filled the air.
Despite nausea, I ate kaya bread, took my medicine, and helped with the recycling before catching the bus. The sky was dark, the streets still half-asleep. A boy...
You build from silence
not from praise,
but from the soft pulse
of something honest.
You walk through rooms
that do not see you,
and still you leave
a trace of light behind.
You create
as if love were a language
you refuse to stop speaking,
even when no one answers back.
You care
too much, sometimes
but it is that tenderness
that makes your world bloom.
And though the world
may count in numbers,
you count in meaning
and that, Celine,
is your quiet miracle.
This morning began with a small mistake — a mix-up of things that made me laugh quietly to myself later. My mum was already mopping the floor when I left, standing by the doorway, watching me go. Her eyes followed me until I waved goodbye.
Outside, the world was still soft and half-awake. I took a different route than most, walking alone until a man muttered under his breath, but I kept moving. In the stillness of the toilet, I had a quiet moment to breathe before returning to the day’s...
The morning began with my mum’s voice reminding me of time.
The sky still held its quiet before the rush.
I hurried, letting her bathe first,
and left for the lift before she came down.
The bus was crowded,
so I sat by the wheelchair space,
feeling the gaze of a stranger who did not know my story.
When I alighted, a woman pulled her child closer,
as if distance could protect her from what she did not understand.
I crossed the road, took the lift,
and a runner brushed past, his arm grazing my phone.
The...
Morning light rose quietly, though my heart still carried the echoes of last night’s words.
Sleep had been thin, and Mum’s voice sharper than usual — about my habits, my phone, my care.
Still, I woke, bathed, and packed what I could
because beneath the tension, there was still a promise to visit Dad.
On the bus, the world rolled by in its own rhythm — 21, then 53
each stop a small reminder of distance and effort.
At the nursing home, Dad spoke softly:
“There are no forever friends or enemies — not...
The morning air felt colder than usual.
Fever lingered, breath heavy, and yet
I rose. I bathed. I moved through the small rituals of living.
My mother was silent,
but I carried that silence like a familiar shawl.
The lift doors closed too soon,
and I didn’t wait this time.
Bus 28 hummed through the dawn,
and I found myself both weary and awake.
There were gentle hands today
a shared seat, a quiet laugh,
and a morning greeting offered to someone I respect.
It felt slightly awkward,
but it was real, and...
Tonight, I think about what it means to nominate someone who has guided me deeply, even when my emotions were mixed. There were moments of admiration, and yes, moments of jealousy too — but behind them was something honest: I cared, I learned, and I grew.
Choosing to honour him reminded me that gratitude isn’t about perfection. It’s about seeing the good that shaped us and acknowledging it with humility. Even when things were complicated, I still recognised the light that his presence brought...
Matcha cake and kueh Salat —
sweet and calm beginnings.
Mum was ready before me,
her quiet hurry folding into the morning air.
Bus 29 was crowded,
faces blending like soft colours.
I chose the dishes I liked —
simple comfort in a busy day.
Crossing the road,
a heartbeat between steps.
The lift door — I held it open
for a stranger I didn’t know.
I saw familiar faces,
and sat at another side.
It was seven —
the city moved,
and I waited for my bus,
carrying the hush of small kindnesses.
This morning began with a sting
a sore throat, a quiet ache.
Mum said I never drink enough water,
so she poured honey into a spoon,
the kind that coats both throat and worry.
I whispered to myself
focus on what I can hold:
my health, my finances, my work.
The rest — just passing noise.
On bus 293,
the seats were scarce and shoulders brushed,
yet I waved to Mum
and carried steadiness with me.
At the lift, a stranger said,
“No worries, thank you so much.”
A soft reminder
gentleness still lives in small...
This morning began with a small spill
water dripping from a too-firm press,
ants arriving like tiny witnesses.
I tried to clean it quietly,
but my mother’s voice came with a sigh,
“Aiyo, why do like that?”
She reminded me about the queue,
and the rubbish,
and dinner — vegetarian bee hoon waiting later,
as she works through another week of sales.
I tried not to vomit while focusing on my task,
a keychain glinting beneath my tired hands.
Before leaving,
she closed the gate and door,
standing there to see me...
This morning began with sweetness
three small cakes, soft and quiet,
the kind that melt without needing to explain.
I ate until half past nine,
while the world outside hurried somewhere else.
Mum bought lunch and dinner,
her footsteps heavy with errands and unspoken thoughts.
Later, her voice rose
about rubbish, water, daydreams,
and how I should know what I’m doing.
She said she would ignore me.
I said nothing.
Dad sent a message
gentle words from somewhere tired:
“Try to understand your mother… love...
The morning began with absence
the bread was gone,
a reminder that tomorrow’s sweetness
would arrive in the form of cake.
The house stirred too quickly.
Vacuum’s roar,
water rushing over tiled floors,
echoes of chores louder than my heartbeat.
I slipped out, missing one bus
and boarding another,
my path already altered.
At the interchange,
a man stepped aside into the station,
while another voice split the air
a quarrel so sharp,
I startled into stillness.
I sought quiet in the restroom,
then descended...
The morning began with a jolt — the sudden hum of the vacuum pulling me awake, followed by clothes placed on a chair as if to remind me of rules I had forgotten. Her words were sharp, almost like a door half-closed, warning me not to linger where I didn’t belong. Even honey, meant to soothe, spilled in haste.
I left at 6:30, following the fast steps of a stranger down the road, my own pace quietly tucked behind hers. The bus carried me forward, to the station, to the lift, to the stairs, each...
This morning began with quiet talk of dinner plans. She woke late, yet still reminded me of routes and stops, nudging me toward steadiness. At the bus stop, a boy shifted away when I sat beside him. Moments later, he rose for an elderly woman — a small kindness, though it left behind the faint sting of distance.
I boarded bus 293. The familiar lady was still there, sitting quietly as if holding her own place in the rhythm of mornings. My steps carried me through familiar turns — toilet,...
Morning rushed upon me —
dirty cloth brushing new fabric,
the last of the berries spilled,
breakfast swallowed in haste.
The road was restless.
Shoes bumped against mine,
a bicycle rang,
cars honked as I cut across,
my phone almost slipping away.
I walked through grass,
finding another way forward.
On the shuttle,
voices drifted,
some close then pulling away,
a song tapping the back of my chair.
Beside me, another sat quietly,
a small anchor in the moving crowd.
Work began with sharp words,
yet softened by a...
Morning broke with ache —
a body unsettled,
flu and nausea whispering
through closed doors.
Her rush swept past my words,
yet I still lit incense,
still sipped honey,
still tried to carry quiet faith.
The road outside was unkind —
vomit’s sting in the air,
gossip circling as I crossed,
a scolding seatmate
when I sat too close.
Embarrassment burned,
but I kept walking,
kept breathing.
Then came gentler notes —
a colleague’s honesty,
another’s fragile tears,
a reminder that struggle
lives in many hearts.
I spoke, I...
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.
