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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.

...

This morning began with voices.
A live stream spoke of respect and positivity,
while the house reminded me of silence.
A comment on hair,
a hand on my back,
a seat chosen wrong.
Even the bus became a mirror
of what others could not accept.

At the hospital,
I carried my longing,
and it was called strange.
I carried my voice,
and it was called nagging.
But my father’s words
cut through the noise:
Keep the good. Ignore the nonsense. Relax.
He told me to look after myself,
and I heard:
“Lay the weight down.”

Later,...

This morning, the house stirred early. My mum reminded me to be careful as she washed the toilets, then told me to take my things and go out before she started the vacuum cleaner. She mentioned buying fish porridge for me, though pig liver soup was too heavy. Between words, she reminded me again to brush up my speaking and vocabulary — lessons tucked into ordinary mornings.

On bus 28, I carried my thoughts with me. After alighting, I used the toilet, though the door kept banging as I tried to...

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,...

This morning began with a pen on my table.
A small thing, yet it sparked words sharper than I wished.
I shifted it anyway, quietly,
and stepped into the day with a late breakfast.

I ran for the bus, breath chasing time.
At the crossing, a couple held hands,
their quiet bond a contrast to my hurried feet.
The red man flickered and I quickened,
choosing motion over stillness.
At the lift, a boy reached for the same seat.
“Excuse me,” I whispered.
He smiled, and turned away
softness instead of struggle.
On...

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...

The day began with aches I could not hide
a stomach unsettled, a trace of red in my breath.
I spoke of it, yet silence and distance greeted me.
Boundaries were drawn, doors closed,
and I found myself leaving early,
carrying both heaviness and resolve.

The sky held its usual rush.
Bus 29 waited for me
a brief kindness from a driver’s pause.
I whispered thanks,
watched uniforms pass,
and learned again how eyes can turn away.

A bump, a sorry,
a bicycle bell, a quick dodge,
a stranger’s thank you
these fleeting...

The rain fell heavy in the morning,
and she went out early to buy lunch and dinner.
She spoke of courses, of skills to be learned,
of money that must be saved,
of how I must think of them before myself.
Her foot brushed mine by accident,
yet when I spoke of it, she said,
“Don’t anyhow say.”
Her voice sharp, her hands busy,
always carrying too much.

A message arrived—
a friend posting photos of us online,
asking if I liked them,
calling me “dear friend.”
I said yes,
and quietly changed my phone to a fairy...

Sometimes I wonder if I am petty — if the little things I notice, the moments I react, make me small.
But truth whispers softly: I am not petty. I am human.

It is not wrong to want respect, to hope others see my care,
to feel a sting when I am overlooked or laughed at.
What rises in me is not pettiness, but sensitivity
a quiet longing to be valued, a wish to be understood.

Strength is not in pretending the small things don’t matter.
Strength is in pausing, asking myself gently:
Is this my value, or...

This morning, prayers came after reminders, a quiet duty before breakfast. The clock ticked gently as I prepared tissue and lozenges, wiped my shoes from a stranger’s spit, and faced small scoldings about keeping the floor clean. In the lift, the door closed and opened again — a forgotten phone, a quick return, a reunion.

At the course, a slip of scanning the wrong code turned into laughter from the teacher, lightening the mood. Messages came, calling me “dear friend,” with playful images of...

This morning began with pau on the table, though I was a little late. My request for seaweed sparked scolding, a sharp word—“parrot”—and warnings not to make her angry. I thought it was scolding, she insisted it was “just talking.” She reminded me about my Ezlink card, about my dad being too skinny, about telling him in a harsher way than I would choose.

I took bus 293, uneasy beside a stranger, then stepped off, crossed by the overhead bridge, and carried on. A flashback stirred—a memory of...

I woke before dawn, the world still heavy with silence. Honey touched my tongue, though my stomach turned uneasy. A tablet eased the ache, and I carried myself into the waking streets.

The bus came, the road hummed, and a bicycle brushed past with a fleeting warning. A car’s horn startled the air, reminding me of how fragile we are when crossing between places.

Familiar faces moved like pieces of a daily puzzle—waves, signals, laughter, quiet gestures asking for silence. A mother guided her...

The morning began with echoes of voices
a reminder repeated too many times,
a parent’s sharp word calling me troublesome
when I spoke of pain.
I brushed, bathed, folded, prepared,
two hours to step into the day,
yet already it felt heavy.

Whispers of feelings surfaced through questions
a game of truths and half-truths,
about mentors, about crushes,
about things I do not wish to believe.
One answer stood clear:
“Trainer and guide, nothing more.”
I nodded, yet still carried the weight of wondering.

At the...

Flashes of light on the roadside,
crowded steps and accidental touches.
A coin of kindness in my palm,
even wrapped in sharper words.

A biscuit passed, a fist bump shared,
small warmth in the in-between.
My arm aches, my elbow hums,
but I keep tying, keep breathing.
Even when the world moves too fast,
I move with it —
quietly, steadily,
still here.

Breakfast was warm, but the air between us felt a little sharp. I was told to use the kitchen toilet before the vacuum began, though it stayed silent for a while. A small coin of kindness — $1.40 for lunch — was pressed into my palm, wrapped in the word “troublesome.”

Outside, vehicles flashed their lights at me as I waited for the bus. The ride was crowded — a soft bump against a stranger, a misstep onto another’s shoe as I alighted, regret flickering through me. A man dropped something on...

The morning began with voices — sharp, impatient, laced with criticism.
I kept my answers short, my steps steady, even when bags flew and tempers stirred.
Hands reached for what wasn’t theirs,
and a small, sweet drink vanished without my knowing.
It became a story everyone seemed to repeat,
each version weaving its own thread of suspicion, teasing, or advice.

Somewhere in the midst of tying strings and avoiding collisions,
I learned that even simple things need guarding
not just from others, but...