The morning began too loud.
The vacuum roared before I was ready,
not out of necessity, but out of control 
a reminder that her timing always comes first.

I dropped the small cover of gouqizi,
prepared my drink, packed my water bottle,
and rushed through teeth, bath, breakfast,
before stepping into the world.

Bus 28 carried me forward.
When I alighted, I bumped into someone 
an accident, not intention 
but still, my hand turned red,
an echo of impact,
a reminder of how life pushes back hard
when I am only trying to move through it.

The toilet was quiet 
no banging, no stares,
just a small mercy.
Bicycles blocked the way,
forcing me to walk another side.
Even in these detours,
I kept going.

On the company bus,
I sat beside a colleague.
I offered a fist bump 
not waiting to be invited,
but choosing connection.
She moved away later,
yet the choice was mine:
to reach, to smile, to share joy.

Through it all,
I remembered a message that came in the night:
“It’s okay.”
Simple, steady words,
offered at 2:40am,
like a lantern in the dark.

And I thought of the days left 
fifty-eight until my birthday.
Not a countdown to candles or gifts,
but a tally of survivals:
the roar of vacuums,
the bumps and red hands,
the bicycles and detours,
the fist bumps and quiet mercies.

Each day survived is its own victory.
And today 
this was enough.