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 wiped away.
I waited at the overhead bridge,
and when the wrong bus passed,
someone teased me gently.
Still, I stood up again when the right one arrived.
Gratitude whispered through me:
despite mistakes, despite dreams that blur into daylight,
I am still okay.

At work, emotion followed me into the bus ride,
but kindness met me too 
a space offered by colleagues,
soft words of “excuse me” and “sorry”
to keep the peace in crowded hallways.
Voices rose around me:
songs hummed, chairs nudged,
frustrations spilling out like sudden sparks.
Even the one who usually talks to me
lifted his voice,
saying that nobody cares for his family.

And yet, between all of this noise,
I remind myself:
I am learning to carry my place in the day 
not perfect, not untouched,
but present.