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.
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