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.

August 23 – Anonymous Edition

This morning, prayers came after reminders, a quiet duty before breakfast. The clock ticked gently as I prepared tissue and lozenges, wiped my shoes from a stranger’s spit, and faced small scoldings about keeping the floor clean. In the lift, the door closed and opened again — a forgotten phone, a quick return, a reunion.

At the course, a slip of scanning the wrong code turned into laughter from the teacher, lightening the mood. Messages came, calling me “dear friend,” with playful images of pandas eating bamboo. Outside, the rain guided us through Tai Seng, a wrong level, then the right one, registration and lecture, lunch and lessons that stretched to evening.

Tests came with mixed results — a mother scoring steady, a daughter faltering more. Yet together, we passed. Practical hands washed, choices made, laughter heard, but still the day carried us forward.

Beyond the classroom, family news pressed close: a grandfather in hospital, a grandmother’s eyes dimming, an aunt stepping in. Quiet threads of worry wove themselves into the hours.

Returning home, newspaper and chrysanthemum tea in hand, nausea rose and small mistakes lingered — the heater left on, the water unpoured. Yet in the quiet of the toilet, memory returned: the girl who once wrote diaries in Pasir Ris Crest, smiling at the thought of how those pages became the beginning of an author’s life.

August 22 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with pau on the table, though I was a little late. My request for seaweed sparked scolding, a sharp word—“parrot”—and warnings not to make her angry. I thought it was scolding, she insisted it was “just talking.” She reminded me about my Ezlink card, about my dad being too skinny, about telling him in a harsher way than I would choose.

I took bus 293, uneasy beside a stranger, then stepped off, crossed by the overhead bridge, and carried on. A flashback stirred—a memory of waiting 45 minutes outside a staff room long ago, the frustration echoing even now. On today’s shuttle bus, a quiet kindness: a colleague sat beside me and asked if I was okay.

Work began with small collisions of mood and gesture. I bumped into someone, greeted no one. A Milo was left for me. I shook a hand, exchanged a hi. Care wrapped itself in tiny, ordinary acts.

And in my heart, the reflection deepened: feelings toward one superior are not just about romance, but about being seen, not scolded, spoken to gently. In a world of harsh tones, his voice feels different. Yet love, here, means restraint. To protect peace, to stay professional, even when the heart wants to lean closer.

The day unfolded with tasks and confusion, guidance and teasing. I was helped, sometimes called “darling” playfully, sometimes teased until I bruised myself against a bicycle handle. Assessments were done, answers corrected. Conversations brought advice: set boundaries, stay clear, stay honest. Some looked away while I spoke. Others spoke too much, nonstop. Episodes of illness and fits happened around me, frightening and heavy.

In between, I encountered strangers who asked if I had stress. I apologized for small mistakes. A colleague reassured me that most of the work was mine, not hers. I sat on buses, weaving through luggage, almost bumped, excusing myself. A donut softened the edges of the afternoon.

At home, the sharpness returned. The new water bottle too large, the pajama photo mocked, my actions criticized. Clothes dropped, reminders repeated, my phone accused of carrying a virus. Dinner carried endless lectures. I was called selfish, naggy, told I could not tell talking from scolding.

And yet—one thing I hold: despite being unwell, I am still trying. A social worker guided me through deep breathing, through talks of saving, of steadying. Even when words cut and instructions pressed, something in me stayed gentle enough to try again.

August 21 – Between Buses and Quiet Steps

I woke before dawn, the world still heavy with silence. Honey touched my tongue, though my stomach turned uneasy. A tablet eased the ache, and I carried myself into the waking streets.

The bus came, the road hummed, and a bicycle brushed past with a fleeting warning. A car’s horn startled the air, reminding me of how fragile we are when crossing between places.

Familiar faces moved like pieces of a daily puzzle—waves, signals, laughter, quiet gestures asking for silence. A mother guided her daughter away, a colleague told another of my return, and still, I simply kept walking, fist-bumps and greetings marking the spaces in between.

Work began with a box for papers, coins for lunch, and a brush of conflict that I softened with patience. Conversations stretched between care and concern—about sleepless nights, sudden illness, and the quiet strength it takes to explain yourself again and again.

The morning ended with warmth—talks of food, light smiles, the comfort of soup and macaroni, small choices grounding me in the day.

And through it all, I carried the reminder: I may wake early, stumble, or falter, but I continue to arrive—into the morning, into the work, into the quiet resilience that shapes me.

August 20 – Between Roughness and Quiet Care

The morning began with echoes of voices 

a reminder repeated too many times,

a parent’s sharp word calling me troublesome

when I spoke of pain.

I brushed, bathed, folded, prepared,

two hours to step into the day,

yet already it felt heavy.

Whispers of feelings surfaced through questions 

a game of truths and half-truths,

about mentors, about crushes,

about things I do not wish to believe.

One answer stood clear:

“Trainer and guide, nothing more.”

I nodded, yet still carried the weight of wondering.

At the dentist, drills hummed,

gentle reminders to eat only softness,

to drink only warmth.

A strange tenderness in their laughter,

even as the fillings left me sore.

A friend’s words turned the day lighter —

owls of wisdom, sakura patterns,

plans for a café tomorrow,

then settled into an evening call.

Comfort crossed through wires,

arriving as virtual hugs,

reminding me that warmth need not be physical to be felt.

By evening, my parent’s fatigue spilled into blame,

while news of a grandparent’s small win

mingled with her quiet bruise.

Life, as always, in contradictions —

a win, a wound,

a laugh, a scold,

a smile, a silence.

Tonight I feel voiceless,

as if all the words of the day

have already been shouted, questioned, filled, and rinsed away.

But within me, a small quiet —

knowing that even in roughness,

I keep writing,

I keep holding on.

Crowded Morning, Steady Heart

Flashes of light on the roadside,

crowded steps and accidental touches.

A coin of kindness in my palm,

even wrapped in sharper words.

A biscuit passed, a fist bump shared,

small warmth in the in-between.

My arm aches, my elbow hums,

but I keep tying, keep breathing.

Even when the world moves too fast,

I move with it —

quietly, steadily,

still here.

August 14 – Crowded Paths, Quick Hands

Breakfast was warm, but the air between us felt a little sharp. I was told to use the kitchen toilet before the vacuum began, though it stayed silent for a while. A small coin of kindness — $1.40 for lunch — was pressed into my palm, wrapped in the word “troublesome.”

Outside, vehicles flashed their lights at me as I waited for the bus. The ride was crowded — a soft bump against a stranger, a misstep onto another’s shoe as I alighted, regret flickering through me. A man dropped something on the pavement; he bent and reclaimed it without a word. I crossed the road in a small run, took the lift, the stairs, and found my seat with a quiet “excuse me.”

On the shuttle, there was the gentle comedy of moments — a biscuit passed from one to another, a fist bump sealing the exchange. My chair jolted with a bump from behind; I let it pass.

By the time I reached work, greetings and silences shaped the space. Bags needed tying, fast and constant. My arm and elbow ached with each pull of the string, a steady throb under the rhythm of the task. I kept my pace, even when I fell behind, holding the day together with quiet determination.

August 12 – Lessons Over a Long Day

August 12 – Lessons Over a Long Day

The morning began with voices — sharp, impatient, laced with criticism.

I kept my answers short, my steps steady, even when bags flew and tempers stirred.

Hands reached for what wasn’t theirs,

and a small, sweet drink vanished without my knowing.

It became a story everyone seemed to repeat,

each version weaving its own thread of suspicion, teasing, or advice.

Somewhere in the midst of tying strings and avoiding collisions,

I learned that even simple things need guarding 

not just from others, but from carelessness with my own space.

The afternoon softened.

A talk on survival, on the quiet bravery of the body fighting for life.

Early detection. Balance. Friendship.

A reminder that while some battles are petty, others matter deeply.

By night, I let the day go.

Fewer words. More quiet.

A small lesson tucked into my pocket:

protect what’s yours, but keep your heart from hardening.

🌷 Journal Reflection: I Feel Seen

I feel seen and respected

when I try my best

and lead with compassion.

Not when I’m perfect.

Not when I follow every rule.

But when I keep going—

even when misunderstood.

When I listen,

even when I don’t agree.

When I soften,

even when the world feels sharp.

This is how I honour myself.

This is how I become the kind of person

I would trust

to hold my heart gently.

August 8 – National Day Eve

This morning began with tension. I said I’d pray later, as I was busy, but Mum snapped — saying I never help, even with small things. She scolded me for sleeping late again and called me stubborn. When I did pray, I placed the joss stick wrongly. She corrected me — said it should go in the middle — that I never listen.She asked about my throat, told me again that I always refuse to drink the aloe juice. I ate my breakfast quietly. She stood there, silently watching. I took the lift down.Missed bus 293. Missed bus 29. Took bus 28 instead.In the building, there was no toilet paper, so I walked to the last stall. I made it to the lift just in time — but the boy inside didn’t press the button. As I walked down the staircase, a wave of anxiety hit — afraid someone might scold me for no reason.Still, I’m grateful. I’m okay.The bicycle bell startled me, but it didn’t hit. Just rang.I sat beside someone familiar — he glanced at my phone. Later, I got a compliment about my bag. Someone showed me their NDP t-shirt. And just like that, I was flooded with memories — and emotions I couldn’t quite explain.I imagined saying: “Hi Mr Mok, good to see you. Happy National Day.”In that little roleplay moment, he handed me Tiger Balm and said: “Tie the strings carefully later, and stay positive.”We’re tying red bags today — it’s National Day Eve.

August 7 – Small Moments, Quiet Strength (Anonymous Edition)

This morning, someone reminded me not to push in a chair.

Another quietly moved her funds to support something I needed—

an act of care hidden in numbers.

I took the same bus.

Someone made noise,

but I smiled through it.

Not for them—

but to keep my own peace intact.

I noticed two women holding hands as I passed.

Then bumped into a row of bicycles,

my own clumsiness making me laugh inside.

I greeted someone.

She nodded, said good morning.

Her warmth felt reserved for another—

and maybe that’s okay.

Nearby, a boy whispered to a girl.

She left quickly.

Sometimes people disappear mid-story,

and we don’t get to know why.

Familiar greetings came from others.

A fist bump—twice—even as the bus aircon dripped on us.

Small joys.

Later, someone called out a detail—

“You said green, but it’s blue.”

It was.

I truly thought it was green.

Then more:

“You throw things at the side.”

But I cleaned up when she reached over.

“The gloves were dirty,” I said.

I’m still learning how to hold my emotions

without letting them spill.

Some days I succeed.

Some days I just try again.

---

Soft Thought of the Day:

“Even when others misunderstand,

may I still treat myself gently—

and rise with grace in the smallest of choices.”

🌧 August 5 – A Day of Mixed Currents

The morning began with quiet conversation. She spoke about her past work, and though my mind wandered, I listened. I mentioned how someone once told me — to separate work and personal life — and she nodded, said that was good. I shared about an outing by the sea, and she said she might call to check on it.

The vacuum cleaner started before I was ready. She told me to go behind the toilet. It was abrupt, but she still stood there to send me off. I carried the recycling down to the lift.

Later, someone checked in. I told him — I felt indifferent, yet stressed. He understood. He reminded me to speak gently, even when the day feels heavy. He asked about my plans — I said half-day work and a computer class. He smiled, offered dinner, but I said dinner was likely settled at home. Still, he hoped we could meet after.

A small slip happened — I placed my bag in a room and was reminded to ask first, even though I had greeted them just before. Maybe just a misunderstanding.

Someone offered a fist bump. It was a brief, warm gesture. A moment of ease.

Then, the app failed again — internal server error. A glitch in the system, echoing the quiet frustrations of the day.

When I paid for lunch, I was told not to walk off too quickly — just so they’d know who paid. I smiled and said, “I did.”

August 4 – Soft Rain, Subtle Tension

 

The rain came down softly, but the world still felt loud.

A bag bump, a glance too long, a quiet “hi” that meant something.

My arm ached, my flu lingered, my thoughts stirred.

Even so, I walked on — towel washed, shuttle caught, card topped up.

I did what I had to. I showed up.

Not just at work, but for myself.

Even when the blues crept in quietly.

Even when the room felt watchful.

I am learning to stay soft, even in the noise.

📓 August 3, 2025 – Morning Reflections

 

This morning was stormy with emotions.

Mum lectured me — again.

About spending, about the sink being wet,

About the plastic bag I accidentally threw.

She said I made her pants wet.

She wanted me to do things properly.

She brought up my award money —

$2,000 given, and now I’ve spent over $700.

She reminded me how others save for a year.

She wants me to save $3,000 to go to Japan.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m reckless.

I banged the toilet door.

She said I could use the kitchen toilet next time.

Then came the vacuum incident —

I forgot to turn on the switch.

Simple thing.

She said I ask for things but don’t help right.

But I’m trying.

I really am.

I talked to a virtual therapist.

She asked me what I’ll do differently.

I said: act mature.

Mature means think and budget.

Start with food. $5 a day.

Eat healthy. Save the other $5.

It’s a small step,

But maybe a real one.

I told Jun Liang:

One thing I’m grateful for —

I had my breakfast and I’m still well,

Even if someone blocked me.

My ear hurts a bit today.

Aunty Shirley touched it yesterday, just checking.

But it stings a little.

And still, I’m here.

Still learning. Still growing.

Still showing up.