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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...

Sometimes I wonder if I am petty — if the little things I notice, the moments I react, make me small.
But truth whispers softly: I am not petty. I am human.

It is not wrong to want respect, to hope others see my care,
to feel a sting when I am overlooked or laughed at.
What rises in me is not pettiness, but sensitivity
a quiet longing to be valued, a wish to be understood.

Strength is not in pretending the small things don’t matter.
Strength is in pausing, asking myself gently:
Is this my value, or...

This morning, prayers came after reminders, a quiet duty before breakfast. The clock ticked gently as I prepared tissue and lozenges, wiped my shoes from a stranger’s spit, and faced small scoldings about keeping the floor clean. In the lift, the door closed and opened again — a forgotten phone, a quick return, a reunion.

At the course, a slip of scanning the wrong code turned into laughter from the teacher, lightening the mood. Messages came, calling me “dear friend,” with playful images of...

This morning began with pau on the table, though I was a little late. My request for seaweed sparked scolding, a sharp word—“parrot”—and warnings not to make her angry. I thought it was scolding, she insisted it was “just talking.” She reminded me about my Ezlink card, about my dad being too skinny, about telling him in a harsher way than I would choose.

I took bus 293, uneasy beside a stranger, then stepped off, crossed by the overhead bridge, and carried on. A flashback stirred—a memory of...

I woke before dawn, the world still heavy with silence. Honey touched my tongue, though my stomach turned uneasy. A tablet eased the ache, and I carried myself into the waking streets.

The bus came, the road hummed, and a bicycle brushed past with a fleeting warning. A car’s horn startled the air, reminding me of how fragile we are when crossing between places.

Familiar faces moved like pieces of a daily puzzle—waves, signals, laughter, quiet gestures asking for silence. A mother guided her...

The morning began with echoes of voices
a reminder repeated too many times,
a parent’s sharp word calling me troublesome
when I spoke of pain.
I brushed, bathed, folded, prepared,
two hours to step into the day,
yet already it felt heavy.

Whispers of feelings surfaced through questions
a game of truths and half-truths,
about mentors, about crushes,
about things I do not wish to believe.
One answer stood clear:
“Trainer and guide, nothing more.”
I nodded, yet still carried the weight of wondering.

At the...

Flashes of light on the roadside,
crowded steps and accidental touches.
A coin of kindness in my palm,
even wrapped in sharper words.

A biscuit passed, a fist bump shared,
small warmth in the in-between.
My arm aches, my elbow hums,
but I keep tying, keep breathing.
Even when the world moves too fast,
I move with it —
quietly, steadily,
still here.

Breakfast was warm, but the air between us felt a little sharp. I was told to use the kitchen toilet before the vacuum began, though it stayed silent for a while. A small coin of kindness — $1.40 for lunch — was pressed into my palm, wrapped in the word “troublesome.”

Outside, vehicles flashed their lights at me as I waited for the bus. The ride was crowded — a soft bump against a stranger, a misstep onto another’s shoe as I alighted, regret flickering through me. A man dropped something on...

The morning began with voices — sharp, impatient, laced with criticism.
I kept my answers short, my steps steady, even when bags flew and tempers stirred.
Hands reached for what wasn’t theirs,
and a small, sweet drink vanished without my knowing.
It became a story everyone seemed to repeat,
each version weaving its own thread of suspicion, teasing, or advice.

Somewhere in the midst of tying strings and avoiding collisions,
I learned that even simple things need guarding
not just from others, but...

This morning began with tension. I said I’d pray later, as I was busy, but Mum snapped — saying I never help, even with small things. She scolded me for sleeping late again and called me stubborn. When I did pray, I placed the joss stick wrongly. She corrected me — said it should go in the middle — that I never listen.

She asked about my throat, told me again that I always refuse to drink the aloe juice. I ate my breakfast quietly. She stood there, silently watching. I took the lift down.

...

This morning, someone reminded me not to push in a chair.
Another quietly moved her funds to support something I needed—
an act of care hidden in numbers.

I took the same bus.
Someone made noise,
but I smiled through it.
Not for them—
but to keep my own peace intact.

I noticed two women holding hands as I passed.
Then bumped into a row of bicycles,
my own clumsiness making me laugh inside.

I greeted someone.
She nodded, said good morning.
Her warmth felt reserved for another—
and maybe that’s okay.

Nearby,...

The morning began with quiet conversation. She spoke about her past work, and though my mind wandered, I listened. I mentioned how someone once told me — to separate work and personal life — and she nodded, said that was good. I shared about an outing by the sea, and she said she might call to check on it.

The vacuum cleaner started before I was ready. She told me to go behind the toilet. It was abrupt, but she still stood there to send me off. I carried the recycling down to the lift.

Later,...

The rain came down softly, but the world still felt loud.
A bag bump, a glance too long, a quiet “hi” that meant something.
My arm ached, my flu lingered, my thoughts stirred.
Even so, I walked on — towel washed, shuttle caught, card topped up.
I did what I had to. I showed up.
Not just at work, but for myself.
Even when the blues crept in quietly.
Even when the room felt watchful.
I am learning to stay soft, even in the noise.

This morning was stormy with emotions.
Mum lectured me — again.
About spending, about the sink being wet,
About the plastic bag I accidentally threw.
She said I made her pants wet.
She wanted me to do things properly.
She brought up my award money —
$2,000 given, and now I’ve spent over $700.
She reminded me how others save for a year.
She wants me to save $3,000 to go to Japan.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m reckless.
I banged the toilet door.
She said I could use the kitchen toilet next time.

Then came...

The day started with a sudden rush — a voice urging to hurry, a routine of tea, essence, and quiet preparation. Emotions stirred early, and the world already felt a little heavy.

At work, someone special said goodbye. There were photos, laughter, soft goodbyes. But also tasks and missed moments, as duties pulled me away. I managed to return for the photo, but not without feeling a little unseen.

There were difficult encounters. A colleague reminded me of the rules. Another kept a distance....