September 16 – Small Turns in the Day (Anonymous Edition)

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 words drifted further: “Did anything happen?” I gave a brief answer. They nodded, as if already knowing.

Later, at the locker, there was teasing about money. Another asked about my absence, then turned to chat elsewhere. A form passed from my hands to another’s, with only a few words exchanged before attention moved on again.

I paid for my lunch. Conversations circled — about messages, about names, about small dramas that did not belong fully to me.

Through it all, I stayed present. A day of questions, of others’ voices pressing near — yet I held my ground, moving quietly through the noise.

Gratitude:

Even in the rush, I am grateful for the steadiness I found — in running, in dodging, in carrying myself with quiet balance. 🌙✨

September Reflection (Anonymous Edition)

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. 🌙✨

September 12 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with scolding,

accusations that I was late,

that I took my own sweet time.

I said I didn’t like her either,

words sharp, heavy, unguarded.

The bus carried me forward,

a woman waved me away,

I gave her a look —

not to vanish,

but to hold my ground.

A jacket sat on,

a seat taken,

yet still mine.

The course began with awkward silence.

Attendance signed,

theory tested,

a mistake revealed:

shock to the heart, not the brain.

A truth corrected,

a skill learned.

CPR clumsy,

hands heavy,

laughter nearby.

Her words followed:

“You didn’t concentrate.”

But I stayed.

I tried.

I kept going.

Messages slipped in —

one steady line:

“See you on Monday.”

Another, brief but gentle:

“Take care.”

Small anchors in a sea of noise.

And the afternoon waits with bandages,

not only for wounds,

but for days like this —

to wrap what aches,

to hold what breaks,

to soften what cannot be healed in an instant.

I am not perfect.

I am not invisible.

I am here —

overwhelmed,

seen,

still showing up.

September 11 – Anonymous Edition

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 — silence sharper than words.

At work, I showed my hand, scratched and stinging. A simple reply came: “that’s sad. Rest first.” Ordinary words, yet carrying more gentleness than expected.

And I realize — what is said lightly about others does not erase the quiet ways I am seen. Depth does not laugh as easily, but it lingers.

Even with stomachaches, slammed doors, and silent refusals, I am grateful. I am still here. Still trying my best despite the weight. And that trying is its own kind of strength.

September 10 – Anonymous Edition

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.

September 9 – A Letter to the Quiet Within

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,

watched it fall like an unwanted thought.

On the shuttle bus,

sadness pressed close.

I almost gave in,

until a voice inside whispered:

don’t be like this.

So I wrote instead—

Dear me,

I am sorry for shouting

and for turning storms

into your shelter.

I am here,

and I will learn

to love you better.

By midday, sweetness arrived:

two candies in my palm,

a piece of chocolate melting slow.

Kind words drifted across the screen,

gentle voices saying

glad you’re okay.

And somewhere in the quiet scroll,

I saw the number —

6.2k souls who glanced at my work,

looked but did not follow.

Still, they saw.

And maybe that is enough,

for even unseen petals

can perfume the air.

Fifty-nine days

until my birthday.

Fifty-nine days

to practice gentleness,

to speak softly within,

to balance the heavy

with the light.

🌙 Celine of the Turning Key — September 8 Reflection

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, but sharp enough to feel.

Still, I kept walking. I topped up my card. I crossed at the green man. I shifted over to make space. Small decisions, small endurance.

And there were glimmers too —

A gentle tap on the arm, reminding me I was seen.

A colleague choosing to sit with me, even after the noise.

A simple “good morning” that I returned.

An offer to promote my book, though I quietly said “It’s ok.”

Even in the heavy moments, there were soft ones. Not everything was ease, but not everything was unkind either.

I count sixty days to my birthday, not in excitement but in quiet endurance. Each day is a turning key — opening nothing grand, perhaps, but still moving me forward.

---

🌿 Reflection Note

I don’t need to combat my feelings. I need to witness them. Each negative emotion is a messenger: overwhelm, frustration, loneliness. Instead of fighting, I can:

1. Name it — say “This is loneliness. This is frustration.”

2. Anchor in breath — “I am here. I am safe. I am breathing.”

3. Create something small — a poem, a design, a photo.

4. Hold one yes — a tap, a greeting, a seat saved.

5. Let small love in — one kind word is enough.

6. Protect my energy — not every door needs opening.

I am not behind. I am not too much. I am simply someone who feels deeply, and that is my strength.

Today, I showed up.

And tomorrow, I will turn the key again.

September 5 – A Quiet Force

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 connection.

On the shuttle, I greeted quietly.

I greeted again,

even as a whisper — a joke, maybe about me —

floated nearby.

Still, I didn’t shrink.

I stood, in my softness.

Words passed like wind,

a “good morning” moved along.

And me?

I stayed present.

I am not their background.

I am the quiet force —

an author, a podcaster, an artist —

who keeps showing up.

Even when my voice cracks.

Even when I’m unsure.

Later, a parcel on its way — my keychain.

I smile, though Mum scolds: “Why order again?”

Because I wanted to share the art I make real.

Chairs pushed, space brushed aside.

Yet I whisper: Happy Birthday.

Because even in small gestures,

I keep my light.

Not with noise.

But with unbreakable softness.

That is how I win. 🌙✨

September 4 – Cold Hands, Quiet Steps

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 five.

Yet clumsy steps remind me

I am always learning balance.

Someone lets me go first,

a quiet courtesy that lingers.

Faces pass: familiar, silent,

chairs are filled in new ways,

routines shuffled.

Some are absent, some are here —

though words of greeting slip past,

laughter still finds me

through the apps on my phone.

And so the morning unfolds —

a little cold, a little tender,

with distance and closeness

woven into the same breath.

September 3, 2025 – Anonymous Edition 🌸🌙

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. Crossing the road, I almost collided into a man who stopped mid-step to pray. On the overhead bridge, I took the lift down, my phone slipping close to the path of a passing bicycle. Life brushing too near, almost colliding, almost breaking.

On the company bus, I sat beside someone familiar. We fist-bumped, a small gesture of warmth in a restless day. My eyes rested on the phone, a shield, a window, a quiet companion.

At work, greetings came after a delay — a “Hi” that lingered a second too long before reaching me. Sherman arrived, his words circling around stickers, curious, probing. I could already picture the quiet shock on another’s face when the stickers are seen — surprise rippling outward like a stone cast into still water.

This morning is stitched with interruptions and almost-collisions, yet softened by small gestures — a bump of fists, a single word, the unspoken anticipation of surprise. Between the noise and the frailty, I carry both heaviness and quiet strength, waiting to see what unfolds.

September 2 – The Flu and the Morning Weight

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 each other,

a kiss, a warmth.

A morning greeting brushed my ears,

my reply floated without eyes meeting.

Another greeting I gave,

and another gaze recorded my absence

into the cold lens of a phone.

No words followed.

Only a record,

and the quiet ache of being noted

but not spoken to.

And so the day begins:

with illness,

with small collisions,

with gestures both warm and distant.

I breathe through it —

fragile, yet still walking.

Reflection – Dolphin Heart

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.

September 1 – Heavy Rain and Gentle Reminders

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 climbing,

faces passing with their own stories.

I waited to see the doctor,

who checked my breath, my throat, my heart —

and found them steady,

medicine offered with calm assurance.

A reminder echoed after:

to buy lunch for myself,

to print and guard my little certificate —

small tasks,

yet they feel like gentle anchors

to hold a wandering day in place.

And somewhere between

the rain, the waiting, the laughter,

I thought again of who I am —

a popular loner,

walking quietly among the noise.