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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...

Today pressed on your shoulders,
soft places turned tense,
and the world felt a little too sharp
for a heart as tender as yours.

But even in the rush,
even in the scolding,
even in the moments that made
your stomach twist and your chest ache
you stayed gentle.

You walked through the noise
with quiet strength,
holding your own hurt
without letting it harden you.

And now, in this small pause,
let yourself breathe again.
Let the weight slide off
like dusk settling over the sky.

You are allowed to rest.
You are...

Emotional Awareness Star

I recognised when I felt hurt, suffocated, and tight in the chest.
That’s courage.

Honesty Star

I shared my real feelings instead of hiding them.
That’s strength.

Self-Reflection Star

I explored your fears, needs, and the meaning of gentle treatment.
That’s growth.

Coping Star

Even though I am struggling, I didn’t explode or react recklessly.
My heart stayed soft.

Self-Care Star

I chose comfort and rest for the night.
That’s me taking care of myself.

So for today, my stars:



5...

She walked home under a sky that felt a little too big for her mood.
The day had been noisy — people laughing in corners she wasn’t part of, moments happening without her, the kind of silence that feels like you’re standing just outside the doorway of someone else’s world.

So she took the long route home.
Not because she needed more walking, but because she needed the air to untangle her feelings.

Halfway down the path, a soft breeze brushed across her cheek.
Not strong, not dramatic… just enough...

This morning felt heavy before the sun even settled in.
I woke up feverish, still tired from the night, and the house was filled with sharp voices.
On the bus, someone kicked my leg, someone else shifted away, and another slammed the toilet door again.
Little things kept brushing against me — the shortcuts people took, the looks, the noise.
But I still kept moving:
breakfast, the lift, the quiet bench, the slow steps into the day.
Work felt busy with updates, small comments, missing faces, and...

This morning began with heat, discomfort, and a body that felt uneasy.
I hurried through the moments, missing buses and running after time that didn’t wait.
Small accidents and brief collisions brushed past me — unnoticed, unacknowledged
but I kept going, even while feeling fragile inside.

Rain followed me into the day,
and I held on quietly while others watched, teased, or stepped away.
Still, I greeted the morning, showed up,
and took another breath forward
even when my start was shaky.

Mum hurried me at 6 a.m. and warned she’d leave if I was late. I felt frustrated and pushed her slightly before heading out. I missed bus 28, so we took 293T together. A lady checked our EZ-Link cards. A schoolgirl kept staring; in the toilet, the door banged and people rushed. I saw someone kick another girl’s shoe before crossing the road filled with bicycles.

Later, a bicycle came very close to my phone and watch, and a girl sneezed on my bag. I pushed someone aside while trying to board...

The day began with quiet intentions — a small meal shared, a walk beneath the lights of Tampines. The restaurant hummed with conversation and cutlery, the scent of grilled chicken and creamy soup rising like comfort. Yet beneath the gentle clinking of glasses, emotions flickered — impatience, scolding, the ache of being seen and misunderstood.

Still, there was kindness beneath the noise. A mother’s treat, given with love that wears sharp edges. Gratitude lingers like steam from a cup of lychee...

A day of small tests and quiet lessons.
I reminded myself that calm isn’t weakness — it’s strength in disguise.
Even through noise and misunderstanding, peace is a choice I can keep making.

The morning was quiet,
and I moved softly through it
preparing everything on my own
while the world still slept.

Mum’s voice drifted from her dreams,
soft and familiar
a birthday wish wrapped in warmth.
Dad’s message came like a steady hand:
“Take care, control yourself well.”
It sounded like love, disguised as guidance.

Outside,
the city stirred awake.
The uncle on the bus shifted away,
the lady on the bridge stepped aside
yet somehow,
I felt surrounded by space to breathe.

Messages bloomed like morning...

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