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, though my heart wanted to speak.
Sometimes I let others pass, even when it hurts.

At work, there were glances, brief greetings, and smiles that carried no weight,
yet still felt like small lanterns in a dim corridor.
Someone helped me with the routine, another asked about someone else,
and I shared a simple truth:
that soon, I would celebrate my birthday here,
in this space between duties and quiet hopes.

I applied for a role that spoke of design 
a dream folded into an application form.
Lunch money slipped through my hands,
while questions pressed closer than I was ready for.

Later, a gentle voice reminded me:
I am not an enemy, even when family feels harsh.
I can set boundaries, even when silence feels safer.
The words rested with me like a balm —
not to erase the sting of the morning,
but to remind me that even quiet hearts
deserve firm kindness.

And so, the day moves forward.
Between pushes and pauses,
I learn again:
I am not alone in my silence.
I am still here, carrying both ache and light.