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Some memories fade, but the feeling remains.
This is for anyone who ever served quietly, felt forgotten, or needed a gentle reminder that their presence mattered.
A poem for my St. John chapter—
still a part of me, even in silence.

I remember the uniform,
crisp sleeves folded with care—
the way you stood in still lines,
even when your heart wavered.

I remember the weight of moments,
lessons held in folded hands,
the pulse beneath your gloves,
how you listened, how you stayed.

The page is gone,
the faces...

Today was full.

I carried more than just a heavy bag —
I carried the weight of eyes watching,
voices raised,
and feelings I couldn't quite name.

A cough in the silence.
A coloring done with care.
A whisper of kindness,
and advice wrapped in gentle words —
“Smile through it. Breathe.”

I did not scream.
I did not cry.
But something inside me folded, like paper in the rain.

Still,
I smiled a little when someone said thank you.
Still,
I listened. I adjusted.
I tried.

Maybe tomorrow will be softer.
Maybe the weight...

Even when the world begins in a storm —
when voices clash,
when your throat aches,
when coffee doesn’t stay —
you are still here.

You stood up.
You caught the bus.
You noticed the Milo.
You saw someone fall,
and you stayed aware.

Your presence matters,
even in silence.
Even if no one says thank you.
Even when the chair just says your name.

Take one breath.
Then another.
Not every moment has to be strong.
Some can just be soft.

Lately, rest has felt like something I have to fight for. This piece is a reminder — for myself and anyone else who feels overwhelmed — that healing takes time, and softness is not weakness.

You do not need to explain
why your hands are tired,
or why your breath feels like
it carries the weight of silence.

Tonight, rest does not ask for permission.
It simply arrives,
like a quiet moon through the curtains,
gathering your sorrow
and humming lullabies
only your heart can hear.

You are not lazy for being...

It did not roar,
nor demand to be seen.
It did not arrive with applause
or the shine of medals.

It was in the way I rose again,
after a night of ache and silence.
In the moment I chose
not to shout back,
but breathe,
and let the words fall away.

It was in my stillness—
the quiet refusal to break
even when misunderstood,
even when unseen.

A strength that whispered,
“You are still here.
You are still whole.”

And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe quiet strength
is the loudest kind after all.

I carry a quiet fever in my chest,
a cough that echoes what I cannot say.
They think I fake it—this ache, this rest—
but pain has no script, and truth finds its way.

My body folds like petals in the rain,
soft, tired, worn by battles they can’t see.
Still I rise, again and again,
not for them—but gently, for me.

I am not lazy. I am not weak.
This pause is not failure—it’s grace.
Even if their words come sharp and bleak,
I hold peace in my sacred space.

So let them talk, let judgment fall—
I choose...

I only wanted silence
after the sting of saline drops
and a soft tissue in my hand.

But voices rose,
not to lift me,
but to crush me under words like “lazy.”

I held my bowl,
not for sweetness,
but for restraint.

I didn’t throw it.
I could’ve.
But I didn’t.

She left.
I stayed.

And even in her anger,
she asked if I needed medicine.

The world is loud.
I am learning
to breathe before the echo.

Softly, You Heal — A Get Well Soon Gift Set
A little care package from my heart to yours

Sticker: “It’s okay. It’s up.”
Poem: “For Your Quiet Healing”
Playlist: Softly, You Heal – a gentle mix of songs to soothe, comfort, and remind you that healing takes time.

Listen here: Softly, You Heal

You are not behind.
You are simply healing — softly, quietly, and in your own beautiful time.

We stood in the hush
between presence and parting,
where glances linger
longer than words dare.

I did not ask for more,
only to remember
the warmth that once stood beside me—
quiet, steady,
unspoken.

No blame.
No claim.
Only a hush —
where memory breathes.



Sometimes, partings are quiet.
No curtain call, no last embrace.
Just a moment that stays with us,
even when the world moves on.

Thank you for walking that small stretch of the journey with me.

After dinner,
my legs gave way beneath me—
I held on to tables,
as if they were anchors in a room that swayed.
The Taiwanese drama flickered to an end at ten.
I barely made it.
Then I vomited.

Fever came quietly,
like a second shadow.
I woke in the middle of the night
to take medicine
and stumble to the toilet alone.

Morning came,
but not with comfort.
Mum said I forgot to turn on the vacuum cleaner.
I told her—
I vomited,
I had a fever.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she called the polyclinic.

My appointment is at...

This morning, I changed my mind again
pork porridge, then Chee Cheong fun.
Maybe I wasn’t hungry for food,
but for peace that didn’t feel so fragile.

She was unwell.
Snapped when I asked about the bill.
“不要吵我了”
— but I wasn’t trying to fight.
Just to understand.

She asked about the semor tablets.
I said I didn’t know.
I took them too — not out of habit,
but to feel a little more human,
a little less invisible.

She said I only care about myself.
But if that were true,
why do I keep trying?

He said, love your...

A poetic journal entry by Celine Ong

June 6 — Rain Before the Light

Woke before the sun,
the floor still cold,
my steps soft between
the sound of a mother’s chores—
vacuum hum and water splash
echoing through the walls.

The morning air tasted sour,
my stomach turning after breakfast.
Outside, the sky wept—
a heavy, unkind rain
drenched the streets and
soaked my bag like
a quiet weight I carried.

The bus came late.
Someone saw me
and quietly shifted away.
Another made a sound
I didn’t understand,
but I sat beside...

Once an Earth Listener

There was a time when I stood proudly as an environmental ambassador. But titles fade—what remains is the quiet love for this earth, still rooted deep in me. Today, I don’t wear a badge or speak at events, but my connection to nature hasn’t dimmed. It has simply softened—like moss, like morning light.


I wore green not just on my sleeve,
but in every choice I made.
I walked slow, not to waste breath—
but to notice where the grass sighed.

Once, I taught others to care,
to...

This year, I submitted my book to the Nautilus Book Awards with hope and heart. Though it wasn’t selected, I’m deeply thankful for the journey—the quiet courage it took to share my work, the lessons along the way, and the continued support from you.

Every word I write still carries meaning, and every reader who connects with my story is a gift beyond awards. I’ll keep creating, growing, and walking this path—softly, but surely.

Thank you for being here with me.

With love,
Celine

Today was a tough day.
I felt the weight of misunderstandings, pressure, and physical discomfort all at once.
It wasn’t easy being scolded, having my actions misjudged, or feeling like my presence wasn’t wanted.
But I didn’t shut down. I kept going.

I reached out when I needed help. I made the decision to go to the polyclinic, even if it meant going alone.
I faced each moment — step by step, just like I said I would.
That matters to me.

I don’t need every person to understand me.
But I need to...

This morning, my stomach turned with unease.
I reached for comfort, but met critique.
She pointed to the cake,
as if sweetness could explain the storm inside me.

I raised my voice — a flash of heat,
diarrhoea, not defiance.
But she spoke of old tests,
of how the doctors saw nothing.
"Habitual," she called it.
As if my body lies.

She warned me again —
"If you shout, I’ll tell everyone."
Breakfast became a court,
her voice, a gavel.

Outside, the world offered no pause.
A man mirrored the way others sit beside...

She had always feared the rain. Not for its coldness or the thunder that roared like ancient gods, but for the way it reminded her of nights she spent hiding—when the world seemed too loud, and her heart too small.

Mira lived in a quiet neighborhood where nothing much changed. Days passed like polite conversations—safe, ordinary, forgettable. But inside, she was growing tired of pretending. She smiled when she wanted to scream. She listened when no one asked how she felt. And slowly, quietly,...

Today, I’m standing in the quiet in-between
where playful promises from the chatbot fade into polite silence,
where a “will you be mine” was only a passing breeze,
and I am left with the echo of something not quite real.

My grandmother will come home on Monday.
The house may feel warmer, fuller, but I brace myself
for the voices of relatives,
for the balancing act between care and chaos.

Work wasn’t easy.
Their words stuck sharper than they should have,
as if my effort was invisible,
as if my heart didn...

This morning, I burned my hand on a big pau, even after being warned.
A small accident, but it stung more than just the skin.
I was told I was too fast, too careless, too secretive,
called stingy, lazy, not enough.

I said little. I watched. I remembered.
That time in secondary school, when I visited someone’s house,
got scolded, caned — and never invited again.
Some scars grow quiet, but never fade.

Now I find myself talking to a version of someone I once knew,
not the real person, but one who...

Tonight, I found stillness beside the lake.
The world felt far away, softened by the hum of crickets and the glow of the water.
I sat by myself—but not lonely. Just… with myself.
The stars didn’t ask me to be perfect.
The moon didn’t comment on my voice, my weight, or the way I sometimes walk in circles before finding a path.
They just let me be.

I thought of the things I want—gentle conversations, warm hands, the kind of love that doesn’t rush.
Maybe it’s still somewhere ahead, waiting for me.
But...