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.

🌙 August 31 – At Ward 67

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.

Someone said, “Don’t worry.”

But worry clings like a second skin.

Someone said, “Don’t shout.”

But my throat remembers

that even raised voices

are proof I am alive,

that I still care.

And then—

my shop:

an unfollow,

another quiet subtraction.

But even in that silence,

I still create.

I still exist.

I still offer the world

my gentle sparks of courage.

Tonight, I remind myself:

Love is not tidy.

Healing is not linear.

But I am here—

daughter, dreamer,

holding the line

between despair and hope.

August 30 – Anonymous Edition

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,

a box cut my thigh,

a keychain broke my nail,

blood reminded me how sharp love can be.

I shouted.

She threatened.

Still—on the bus,

a stranger let me board first.

A crack of kindness in the storm.

Between scolding and silence,

I hold onto the ones who see me.

The friend who says, “I will protect you.”

The mentor who never texts,

but keeps my name card like a small truth.

Not laughter, not teasing—

but quiet attention.

Depth, not surface.

Respect, not dismissal.

Even with bleeding hands, I write this:

I am not ignored.

I am not erased.

I am seen—

in ways that stay when the noise is gone. 🌙✨

August 29 – Morning Reflection (Anonymous Edition)

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 find a moment’s quiet. When I stepped out, the lady walked in, and I moved on — crossing the road, taking the lift to the overhead bridge, descending the stairs, and finding there was no seat. Saufiq spotted me and teased as always. “Celine, you dreaming. Play handphone,” he said. I only answered that I saw the bus and would stop it. Around me, a lady coughed and kicked lightly in front, while the noise of the morning carried on.

My colleague might bring me to the pasar malam after work, but at home, mum’s reminders of the seventh month echoed. She said not to go out after work, not to wander late. Her voice carried warning after warning: if I insisted, she would not waste time buying dinner. So I said I would go home after work, yet thanked her still for reminding me.

Old memories rose — darker ones — like when I once cut my own arm. The sharpness of those days still lingers, even in quieter moments now.

Later, I greeted a colleague. “Good morning,” I said. He returned the greeting warmly and asked how I was. I admitted I was feeling a little emo. My mum scolded me yesterday for keeping things under her bed, for a hat she found, for small things. She even threatened not to buy dinner this morning. I said I missed him, and he listened softly.

The day carried both teasing and gentleness. Teck Mui and Kun Ling massaged me, though Kun Ling laughed about her elbow pain and some colleagues joined in the laughter at my expense. I stayed silent, waiting as Mr. Satha often reminded me. Inside, I held both the sting of their laughter and the warmth of being noticed.

Plans drifted toward lighthearted things — a Hello Kitty café, tea and cake, a quiet corner indoors. In that imagining, I felt a little steadier, even if home reminders still tugged at me.

---

🌸 Closing Reflection:

Today began with warnings, with scolding, with memories that cut deep. Yet there were also softer threads — greetings, massages, light jokes, the thought of a pastel café. I am still learning how to hold both at once: the heavy and the light, the warnings and the small dreams. Maybe that is what balance is — carrying them quietly, and still choosing a soft place to sit inside my heart.

August 28 – Anonymous Edition

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, though my heart wanted to speak.

Sometimes I let others pass, even when it hurts.

At work, there were glances, brief greetings, and smiles that carried no weight,

yet still felt like small lanterns in a dim corridor.

Someone helped me with the routine, another asked about someone else,

and I shared a simple truth:

that soon, I would celebrate my birthday here,

in this space between duties and quiet hopes.

I applied for a role that spoke of design —

a dream folded into an application form.

Lunch money slipped through my hands,

while questions pressed closer than I was ready for.

Later, a gentle voice reminded me:

I am not an enemy, even when family feels harsh.

I can set boundaries, even when silence feels safer.

The words rested with me like a balm —

not to erase the sting of the morning,

but to remind me that even quiet hearts

deserve firm kindness.

And so, the day moves forward.

Between pushes and pauses,

I learn again:

I am not alone in my silence.

I am still here, carrying both ache and light.

August 27 – Anonymous Edition

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 the next bus, a hand signaled me aside,

a chill in the morning air.

When I arrived, a door opened 

someone letting me enter first,

a kindness like sunlight breaking through.

Elsewhere, voices rose in drama,

echoes of frustration and mimicry.

But amidst the noise, a friend remembered me 

buying my favorite snack to share later,

a gesture like petals carried by wind.

Another offered only a brief greeting,

then rested his head,

weighed down by unseen thoughts.

So the morning unfolded 

sakura and thorns, shadows and moonlight.

Between what pushed me away

and what quietly held me close,

I found small spaces of grace.

August 26 – Anonymous Edition

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 wiped away.

I waited at the overhead bridge,

and when the wrong bus passed,

someone teased me gently.

Still, I stood up again when the right one arrived.

Gratitude whispered through me:

despite mistakes, despite dreams that blur into daylight,

I am still okay.

At work, emotion followed me into the bus ride,

but kindness met me too 

a space offered by colleagues,

soft words of “excuse me” and “sorry”

to keep the peace in crowded hallways.

Voices rose around me:

songs hummed, chairs nudged,

frustrations spilling out like sudden sparks.

Even the one who usually talks to me

lifted his voice,

saying that nobody cares for his family.

And yet, between all of this noise,

I remind myself:

I am learning to carry my place in the day 

not perfect, not untouched,

but present.

August 25 – A Rough Morning, A Small Gratitude

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 exchanges stitched the path to work.

The traffic jam slowed the road,

yet still I held the rail,

still I moved forward.

And though words at home still echo sharp,

I keep one gratitude close:

that I ate, that I stepped out,

that I reached the bus despite the storm inside.

Even in rough mornings,

I remind myself

moving forward is also a kind of healing. 🌸

August 24 – Anonymous Edition

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 theme.

He replied simply, “Oh, I see.”

A small warmth in the middle of the noise.

Later, we went to the shop.

We waited until he came,

pushing his daughter in a pram.

He checked my phone,

assured me it was fine,

reminded me to let it rest,

to restart once in a while.

After glass replaced yet again,

we nearly took the wrong bus.

Her voice rose, sharp in the air.

An old man let us into the lift first,

asking gently for our floor.

We reached home,

the day still heavy with rain.

At lunch, the words grew sharper.

“There is no more Milo,

I drank the last one,” she said,

and then the accusations followed—

that I did not help,

that I was selfish.

Even relatives were not spared.

I said she scolded me.

She said it was just talking.

The phone rang with news:

he is in the hospital still,

rashes unhealed,

a skin doctor tomorrow.

She will go and visit.

The weight of illness lingered between us.

I registered for a walk in September,

a small promise to myself

to keep moving.

And I saw a shirt I liked—

a voice I listen to,

a melody I admire—

but the price was high,

so I let it pass,

choosing restraint instead of desire.

And so the day unfolded—

with rain and reprimands,

with small kindnesses and sharp words,

with a quiet note of friendship,

and a promise of tomorrow’s walk.

“Even in the rain, I learn to carry both sharp words and soft kindness.

I walk between what I cannot change and the small choices I can—

to pause, to restart, to save, to let go.

Tomorrow will bring its own light.” 🌙✨

🌱 Not Petty, Just Human

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 a moment I can let float away?

Each answer teaches me.

Each reflection softens me.

I carry forward not the weight of being “petty,”

but the truth of being human —

learning, feeling, and still choosing love.