🌙 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.