I woke with a tilt in my breath,
the room spinning slightly
a quiet kind of unsteadiness
that only I could feel.
There were words again about control,
about phones,
about rules that sound like protection
but feel like walls.
Still, there was honey on the spoon,
and I took it without protest.
The bus I meant to catch left me behind.
I didn’t chase.
Another route appeared, and I followed it,
slow feet on worn ground.
A name echoed behind me
was it mine?
The air brushed past
as a stranger’s hand grazed mine by accident.
I wiped it away quietly,
not with anger,
just instinct.
Voices around me never stopped,
loud chatter filling the lift,
the bridge,
the space between footsteps.
And yet,
amidst all that noise
a soft greeting.
Shahirah,
a quiet “Good morning.”
And later, another from someone
who rarely sees me.
I told myself
I’m just here to work.
Nothing more, nothing less.
That’s my anchor in the tide.
But even the tide can get choppy.
Mentions of hurt,
names that stir memories of unkindness.
I tried to steer the moment gently
“Let’s talk about something happy.”
It matters,
what we choose to speak into the air.
There were sharp sounds too
shouting across rooms,
grumpiness that lingered like thick smoke.
An accidental spill,
a cloth meant for tables pressed to my arm,
and words I tried not to hold too tightly.
People passed me roughly,
brushed through like I was invisible,
like I had no weight.
Still I stood.
And then
tears.
Not mine.
But someone else’s storm breaking.
And the kindness that followed,
as friends came near.
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