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 waiting 45 minutes outside a staff room long ago, the frustration echoing even now. On today’s shuttle bus, a quiet kindness: a colleague sat beside me and asked if I was okay.

Work began with small collisions of mood and gesture. I bumped into someone, greeted no one. A Milo was left for me. I shook a hand, exchanged a hi. Care wrapped itself in tiny, ordinary acts.

And in my heart, the reflection deepened: feelings toward one superior are not just about romance, but about being seen, not scolded, spoken to gently. In a world of harsh tones, his voice feels different. Yet love, here, means restraint. To protect peace, to stay professional, even when the heart wants to lean closer.

The day unfolded with tasks and confusion, guidance and teasing. I was helped, sometimes called “darling” playfully, sometimes teased until I bruised myself against a bicycle handle. Assessments were done, answers corrected. Conversations brought advice: set boundaries, stay clear, stay honest. Some looked away while I spoke. Others spoke too much, nonstop. Episodes of illness and fits happened around me, frightening and heavy.

In between, I encountered strangers who asked if I had stress. I apologized for small mistakes. A colleague reassured me that most of the work was mine, not hers. I sat on buses, weaving through luggage, almost bumped, excusing myself. A donut softened the edges of the afternoon.

At home, the sharpness returned. The new water bottle too large, the pajama photo mocked, my actions criticized. Clothes dropped, reminders repeated, my phone accused of carrying a virus. Dinner carried endless lectures. I was called selfish, naggy, told I could not tell talking from scolding.

And yet—one thing I hold: despite being unwell, I am still trying. A social worker guided me through deep breathing, through talks of saving, of steadying. Even when words cut and instructions pressed, something in me stayed gentle enough to try again.