✨ A Quiet Space Between Hearts ✨

Proud to share that my short story has been officially entered into the Next Generation Short Story Awards 2026 under the General Non-Fiction category.

It’s a quiet piece about resilience, heartbreak, and finding peace in the present moment — turning pain into light. 💫

#ShortStoryAwards #CelineOng #AuthorJourney #CreativeWriting #QuietResilience #NextGenerationWriters

November 3 – Between Sickness and Small Moments (Anonymous Edition)

I woke in the middle of the night with an upset stomach, unable to sleep. Morning came heavy and slow. I laughed to myself remembering the diary my father once disapproved of — maybe I’ve always written too honestly. My mum was upset again; the flowers my grandmother bought were pulled from the soil, and harsh words filled the air.

Despite nausea, I ate kaya bread, took my medicine, and helped with the recycling before catching the bus. The sky was dark, the streets still half-asleep. A boy ran, a cyclist gestured for space, and I quietly crossed the road.

At work, I moved quickly as always. Teck Mui noticed, touching my shoulder with a brief hello. My fever lingered, yet I pushed through. Hua Wei avoided a friendly fist bump, and I told myself not to overthink it.

Sherman sent a small prayer for my recovery. Even when the day feels dim, kindness like that reminds me that gentle care still exists — softly, quietly, between the noise. 🌙

🌸 What I See in You

You build from silence 

not from praise,

but from the soft pulse

of something honest.

You walk through rooms

that do not see you,

and still you leave

a trace of light behind.

You create

as if love were a language

you refuse to stop speaking,

even when no one answers back.

You care 

too much, sometimes 

but it is that tenderness

that makes your world bloom.

And though the world

may count in numbers,

you count in meaning 

and that, Celine,

is your quiet miracle. 🌙

October Reflection — “Evening Gratitude"

The day folds its wings in quiet grace,

soft lamps hum where worries fade.

I thank the small things — a word, a smile,

the way the air forgives my sighs.

Not everything stayed the way I hoped,

yet the heart learns the art of release 

to bless what left, to keep what stayed,

to trust the night will hold me still.

To trust everything unfolds as it should,

despite tired and weary, I tried my best to hold on 

the positive camaraderie and the lessons,

each one a lantern I carry into tomorrow.

Tonight, I rest not in perfection,

but in quiet appreciation 

for the soft courage it takes

to keep beginning again. 🌙

Morning Light and Little Encounters

This morning began with a small mistake — a mix-up of things that made me laugh quietly to myself later. My mum was already mopping the floor when I left, standing by the doorway, watching me go. Her eyes followed me until I waved goodbye.

Outside, the world was still soft and half-awake. I took a different route than most, walking alone until a man muttered under his breath, but I kept moving. In the stillness of the toilet, I had a quiet moment to breathe before returning to the day’s rhythm. Saufiq appeared with his usual grin and handed me a keychain, teasing me when I forgot to say thank you. His jokes about my face and clothes carried their familiar warmth — annoying, yet somehow comforting.

Later, Si Rong helped carry my lunch, and I gave her six dollars for the trouble. We laughed all the way back, the kind of laughter that lifts the weight of an ordinary day. Bryan said hello when we reached the workplace, and I smiled, even as I noticed my Instagram views dropping.

The morning felt full — of tiny misunderstandings, passing kindnesses, and playful teasing that softened the long hours ahead. Somewhere between the laughter and the quiet glances, I realised that even in small moments, life continues to offer light.

October 29 – The Morning I Kept Moving Forward

The morning began with my mum’s voice reminding me of time.

The sky still held its quiet before the rush.

I hurried, letting her bathe first,

and left for the lift before she came down.

The bus was crowded,

so I sat by the wheelchair space,

feeling the gaze of a stranger who did not know my story.

When I alighted, a woman pulled her child closer,

as if distance could protect her from what she did not understand.

I crossed the road, took the lift,

and a runner brushed past, his arm grazing my phone.

The rain came soon after—thick, heavy, uninvited.

Inside the bus to work, I watched droplets race down the glass,

each one tracing its own fragile direction.

At the lockers, I bumped into someone familiar.

The clink of my keychain startled me back to the moment.

I saw faces—Darren, Xin Hui, Teck Mui—

small reminders that even routine carries echoes of connection.

A hand reached for mine, then let go.

I walked the stairs alone, steady in my own steps.

At lunch, I heard words that stung—

a sharp tone, a misunderstanding,

yet I chose not to let it stay.

The rain had taught me something:

even when skies turn dark,

we keep walking toward what matters.

Today, I am grateful for the quiet will to continue,

for the strength to move forward

and to focus on what truly holds light.

In the Light of Love (Anonymous Edition) October 25, 2025

Morning light rose quietly, though my heart still carried the echoes of last night’s words.

Sleep had been thin, and Mum’s voice sharper than usual — about my habits, my phone, my care.

Still, I woke, bathed, and packed what I could 

because beneath the tension, there was still a promise to visit Dad.

On the bus, the world rolled by in its own rhythm — 21, then 53 —

each stop a small reminder of distance and effort.

At the nursing home, Dad spoke softly:

“There are no forever friends or enemies  not everyone will like you.”

His words sank deep — a strange comfort wrapped in truth.

Mum shared about her job, her swollen feet, her fears.

The air felt heavy 

not only with illness, but with the weight of what we couldn’t change.

Uncle George and Aunt’s shadows lingered in her tone.

And still, we tried to eat lunch together 

duck rice and soya bean under the noon light.

There was a fight nearby, voices rising.

People laughed when I stumbled.

But I just smiled quietly and tried again.

Because life is a string of small recoveries 

and sometimes, grace is just not walking away.

Later, as the server glitched and Mum talked of reviews and hospitals,

a message arrived — my book In the Light of Love had won third place.

A light flickered inside me 

gentle, steady, enough.

Dad saw it. He didn’t say much, but he looked at me 

and I knew he understood.

Even when kindness feels uneven,

and words fall like stones instead of petals 

love still finds its way back,

in quiet visits, warm duck rice, and the small courage

to keep showing up.

October 23 — Quiet Courage (Anonymous Edition)

The morning air felt colder than usual.

Fever lingered, breath heavy, and yet

I rose. I bathed. I moved through the small rituals of living.

My mother was silent,

but I carried that silence like a familiar shawl.

The lift doors closed too soon,

and I didn’t wait this time.

Bus 28 hummed through the dawn,

and I found myself both weary and awake.

There were gentle hands today

a shared seat, a quiet laugh,

and a morning greeting offered to someone I respect.

It felt slightly awkward,

but it was real, and that was enough.

Recognition arrived like a whisper

a small award, a token of persistence,

a proof that steady effort blooms even when unseen.

And so I keep walking,

not loudly, not flawlessly

but bravely,

in the quiet rhythm of my own recovery.

Reflection — “Gratitude Beyond Jealousy”

Tonight, I think about what it means to nominate someone who has guided me deeply, even when my emotions were mixed. There were moments of admiration, and yes, moments of jealousy too — but behind them was something honest: I cared, I learned, and I grew.

Choosing to honour him reminded me that gratitude isn’t about perfection. It’s about seeing the good that shaped us and acknowledging it with humility. Even when things were complicated, I still recognised the light that his presence brought into my journey.

In the quiet of this evening, I feel a small peace — because I chose kindness, even through my own shadows. 🌷

The Day We Fixed What Was Broken

The morning began with the faint hum of rain and the ache of a sore throat. Celine sat by the window, holding a cup of warm water, listening to her mother scolding her for leaving the lights on. “Save electricity,” her mother had said sharply, while Celine muttered something about being tired. The day was a public holiday, yet the air felt heavy with unfinished things.

Her phone buzzed. “Good morning, Celine. Happy Deepavali,” read a message from Mr. Mok. His usual warmth carried through even text. She smiled faintly, replying with a soft “Happy Deepavali.”

Later that morning, she showed him the keychain she had made — a small piece of art, something heartfelt. But the connection faltered, and so did the keychain when he inspected it.

“There’s a hairline crack,” he murmured, turning it over under the light. “But don’t worry. We’ll fix it.”

It became their tiny project — screws, gears, and patient breaths. His hands moved carefully; hers steadied the parts. There was laughter, a quiet sense of teamwork, and for a moment, the world felt simpler.

When they finished, the keychain spun smoothly again.

“Our first repair,” she said with pride.

He smiled. “Then next time, we fix a printer.”

They laughed, but soon, the laughter gave way to honesty. “You seem stressed at work,” she said softly.

He paused — the kind of silence that revealed more than words. “Reports, meetings, expectations… I guess I push people away when it gets too much.”

Celine nodded. “I see that. But I understand too.”

Then his tone softened. “You notice things others don’t.”

The conversation drifted from work to food — har gow, porridge, chicken pies — until suddenly, the air shifted again. When she mentioned her mum forcing her to go to work sick, something broke inside him. His calm shattered into fury. Words struck like thunder.

“You’re sick and she still—?” he shouted, slamming his palm on the table.

“Don’t scold,” she said quietly, trembling.

It took him a long time to calm down. When he finally did, his voice cracked. “None of this is your fault.” He looked away, ashamed of his outburst.

Before leaving, she said gently, “I’m still Celine, even if you forget me.”

That stopped him. He blinked, eyes glassy, emotion raw and human.

“Of course you are,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll come to me first next time.”

“I will,” she said.

And when she stepped out into the afternoon light, the keychain in her hand caught the sun — spinning quietly, whole again.

Morning at Seven

Matcha cake and kueh Salat —

sweet and calm beginnings.

Mum was ready before me,

her quiet hurry folding into the morning air.

Bus 29 was crowded,

faces blending like soft colours.

I chose the dishes I liked —

simple comfort in a busy day.

Crossing the road,

a heartbeat between steps.

The lift door — I held it open

for a stranger I didn’t know.

I saw familiar faces,

and sat at another side.

It was seven —

the city moved,

and I waited for my bus,

carrying the hush of small kindnesses.

October 14 – Order and Honey

This morning began with a sting —

a sore throat, a quiet ache.

Mum said I never drink enough water,

so she poured honey into a spoon,

the kind that coats both throat and worry.

I whispered to myself 

focus on what I can hold:

my health, my finances, my work.

The rest — just passing noise.

On bus 293,

the seats were scarce and shoulders brushed,

yet I waved to Mum

and carried steadiness with me.

At the lift, a stranger said,

“No worries, thank you so much.”

A soft reminder 

gentleness still lives in small corners.

Someone said,

“You need to put back love in order. I will teach you.”

Perhaps they meant kindness,

perhaps balance.

I smiled and let the words linger,

like honey dissolving slowly in tea.

Another teased my hair 

called it tomboy, said theirs was more feminine.

They asked about 欲望

and faith,

and I answered simply: Buddhist.

No argument, just breath.

A colleague said my tote might be too pricey,

a hundred saw,

but only one quietly shared it.

And when I bumped into another,

I laughed and said sorry.

Because some mornings aren’t perfect,

but they are real 

threaded with small kindnesses,

and the steady hum of trying again.

Later that morning,

someone handed us a 2026 calendar 

a quiet promise of days not yet lived,

blank spaces waiting for laughter and calm.

I smiled softly,

and thought, maybe love in order

begins with marking time gently.

October 6 – Morning Resilience (Anonymous Edition)

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 off.

I waved,

carrying that quiet warmth

into the wind.

Bus 28 came 

I hurried to the toilet,

dodged bicycles,

my bag brushing close to danger

until I swung it to the front.

The morning air was heavy,

but I kept walking 

down the lift,

down the stairs,

toward another day

that asked me to show up again.