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This morning began with a small spill
water dripping from a too-firm press,
ants arriving like tiny witnesses.
I tried to clean it quietly,
but my mother’s voice came with a sigh,
“Aiyo, why do like that?”
She reminded me about the queue,
and the rubbish,
and dinner — vegetarian bee hoon waiting later,
as she works through another week of sales.

I tried not to vomit while focusing on my task,
a keychain glinting beneath my tired hands.
Before leaving,
she closed the gate and door,
standing there to see me...

This morning began with sweetness
three small cakes, soft and quiet,
the kind that melt without needing to explain.
I ate until half past nine,
while the world outside hurried somewhere else.

Mum bought lunch and dinner,
her footsteps heavy with errands and unspoken thoughts.
Later, her voice rose
about rubbish, water, daydreams,
and how I should know what I’m doing.
She said she would ignore me.
I said nothing.

Dad sent a message
gentle words from somewhere tired:
“Try to understand your mother… love...

The morning began with absence
the bread was gone,
a reminder that tomorrow’s sweetness
would arrive in the form of cake.

The house stirred too quickly.
Vacuum’s roar,
water rushing over tiled floors,
echoes of chores louder than my heartbeat.
I slipped out, missing one bus
and boarding another,
my path already altered.

At the interchange,
a man stepped aside into the station,
while another voice split the air
a quarrel so sharp,
I startled into stillness.
I sought quiet in the restroom,
then descended...

The morning began with a jolt — the sudden hum of the vacuum pulling me awake, followed by clothes placed on a chair as if to remind me of rules I had forgotten. Her words were sharp, almost like a door half-closed, warning me not to linger where I didn’t belong. Even honey, meant to soothe, spilled in haste.

I left at 6:30, following the fast steps of a stranger down the road, my own pace quietly tucked behind hers. The bus carried me forward, to the station, to the lift, to the stairs, each...

This morning began with quiet talk of dinner plans. She woke late, yet still reminded me of routes and stops, nudging me toward steadiness. At the bus stop, a boy shifted away when I sat beside him. Moments later, he rose for an elderly woman — a small kindness, though it left behind the faint sting of distance.

I boarded bus 293. The familiar lady was still there, sitting quietly as if holding her own place in the rhythm of mornings. My steps carried me through familiar turns — toilet,...

Morning rushed upon me —
dirty cloth brushing new fabric,
the last of the berries spilled,
breakfast swallowed in haste.

The road was restless.
Shoes bumped against mine,
a bicycle rang,
cars honked as I cut across,
my phone almost slipping away.
I walked through grass,
finding another way forward.

On the shuttle,
voices drifted,
some close then pulling away,
a song tapping the back of my chair.
Beside me, another sat quietly,
a small anchor in the moving crowd.

Work began with sharp words,
yet softened by a...

Morning broke with ache —
a body unsettled,
flu and nausea whispering
through closed doors.

Her rush swept past my words,
yet I still lit incense,
still sipped honey,
still tried to carry quiet faith.

The road outside was unkind —
vomit’s sting in the air,
gossip circling as I crossed,
a scolding seatmate
when I sat too close.
Embarrassment burned,
but I kept walking,
kept breathing.

Then came gentler notes —
a colleague’s honesty,
another’s fragile tears,
a reminder that struggle
lives in many hearts.
I spoke, I...

This morning began gently, with honey offered across the table. A question about dinner lingered in the air, simple yet thoughtful.

I missed one bus, then another, before finally boarding. In the toilet, my door was slammed again and again — sharp interruptions that I carried quietly. Crossing the road, I ran; in the lift and on the stairs, I moved with steady rhythm. A bicycle passed too close, and I shifted aside just in time.

On the bus, someone sat with me and asked about my family. Their...

Dinner was a quiet bowl of noodles, warmth in the midst of a day that pressed in small ways.
An arm, faintly green with bruise, carried its own silence.
The house filled with footsteps and rebuke
walking in and out, space asked but not given.
Two tablets rested in my hand, a reminder to care for myself.
And after the swallow, after the stillness,
the body began to ease.
Better. A little lighter.

This morning, I woke on my own. A small sweetness of honey after brushing, a bath, a breakfast — and still, the ache of almost-tears. My stomach hurt; I pressed oil against the pain before stepping out. On the bus, I carried myself quietly. The toilet doors slammed, the smell turned my stomach, the lift brought me down, and I sat quickly before another could. Small routines, sharp edges.

On the ride, someone joked “boss let boss.” I offered a greeting, but another refused to meet my eyes —...

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...

Morning water, unboiled,
a reminder to ask before taking,
before sipping from what is shared.
The clock whispered too late,
though I had already risen,
bathed, eaten,
and stepped into the doorway
where she stood, watching,
sending me off in silence.

Bus wheels carried me forward.
A stranger slammed a door,
another gaze lingered too long.
Between the lift and the stairs,
an old woman in her chair descended,
guided by steady hands.
And on my phone —
a wandering insect,
as if to test my patience.
I blew it away,
...

This morning began not with calm, but with the roar of a vacuum before my day had even started. Yesterday I had carried that task for someone else, and yet today it returned, louder, insistent. Instructions followed quickly — “Throw outside.” “Wear shoes outside.” “Take out your Ezlink card.” Even while I was already moving.

And then, outside:

A bird flew at me, and I covered my ears.

A toilet door slammed, startling me.

Someone brushed my shoe without apology.

Laughter echoed — not meant for me,...

The morning began with cake offered —
a mix of sweetness in the midst of flu, cough, and sore throat.
I said “Ok” anyway.
Medicine swallowed, voice cracking,
but my mother’s reminder lingered:
“Drink more water.”

The vacuum roared before I left,
yet I still stepped out —
onto bus 28, into the day.

At the overhead bridge,
the bicycle’s hum, the rush across the road —
my body carried me forward.
Someone sat apart,
but her mother smiled,
and in that moment, I leaned closer,
chose conversation, chose...

Last night, a sound too sharp —
a phone set down, mistaken for anger.
Morning arrives with cold, clammy hands and feet,
and the hum of a vacuum too early,
stirring emotions before the day even begins.

The streets rush past me —
a boy running, a bicycle sweeping close,
the red light ignored as I cross anyway,
lifts and stairs tracing my path
into a brisk walk toward the day.
When I sit, someone shifts away,
distance drawn without a word.

On the bus, a small warmth —
a greeting returned,
a fist bump, a high...

This morning, I carried nausea, fever, flu, and cough in my body. Medicine taken, yet the weight lingers like a cloud that refuses to lift. Mum asked quietly about pads. I told myself I would share when needed, not before.

Breakfast offered a moment of grounding, then I stepped into the flow of the world. Bus 28 arrived, and someone pushed me aside — a sting of sharpness in an already tender morning. In the toilet, the door slammed again and again, an impatient echo that rattled my calm....

This morning,
my chest carried flu, cough, and nausea,
medicine swallowed like small anchors.
Beside me, another voice spoke of a flu too —
perhaps the hospital air still lingered in our lungs.

Bus 28 hummed its usual song.
A man rose before me,
my step brushed against a stranger’s shoes,
her hand struck my bag, sharp and wordless.
The toilet door banged shut against silence,
stairs and lifts carried me toward
the waiting place of routine.

At work,
I saw embraces not mine to claim:
two figures folded into...

Today I let something new swim into the world
a dolphin leaping over waves of lavender and blue,
its heart carrying both freedom and love.

I didn’t force it,
didn’t try to control how others might see it.
I simply shaped it with soft hands,
and let it flow.

Like the tide,
some things are meant to rise and fall naturally.
What matters is that in this moment,
I created,
I smiled,
I set a little piece of joy free.

This morning began with laughter —
a smile rising early at six,
though work did not call me,
only errands waiting quietly ahead.

A message came,
a simple promise of tomorrow’s meeting,
and I carried it with me like a light.
Still, the thought of cut wages
pressed like a stone in my pocket.

Outside, the rain was heavy.
I took a car instead of the bus,
the driver preferring silence
while I sat with my thoughts,
watching the city blur behind the window.

At the clinic,
doors closed for cleaning, ladders...

The corridors smelled of antiseptic and quiet worry.
I stood by the bedside, voice soft,
but my heart loud enough to tremble through the walls.

He turned away,
eyes closed in delirium,
rejecting food, rejecting sound.
And yet—
he ate.
A spoon of rice,
a slice of sugar roll,
a sip of soya bean.
Small, fragile victories hidden in the fog.

Her words cut,
sharp and sudden,
blaming, reminding,
saying my shout left me sore.
But my voice was never malice.
It was ache,
it was survival,
it was love trying to be heard.

...