I woke in the middle of the night with an upset stomach, unable to sleep. Morning came heavy and slow. I laughed to myself remembering the diary my father once disapproved of — maybe I’ve always written too honestly. My mum was upset again; the flowers my grandmother bought were pulled from the soil, and harsh words filled the air.

Despite nausea, I ate kaya bread, took my medicine, and helped with the recycling before catching the bus. The sky was dark, the streets still half-asleep. A boy ran, a cyclist gestured for space, and I quietly crossed the road.

At work, I moved quickly as always. Teck Mui noticed, touching my shoulder with a brief hello. My fever lingered, yet I pushed through. Hua Wei avoided a friendly fist bump, and I told myself not to overthink it.

Sherman sent a small prayer for my recovery. Even when the day feels dim, kindness like that reminds me that gentle care still exists — softly, quietly, between the noise. 🌙