September 10 – Anonymous Edition

The morning began too loud.

The vacuum roared before I was ready,

not out of necessity, but out of control —

a reminder that her timing always comes first.

I dropped the small cover of gouqizi,

prepared my drink, packed my water bottle,

and rushed through teeth, bath, breakfast,

before stepping into the world.

Bus 28 carried me forward.

When I alighted, I bumped into someone —

an accident, not intention —

but still, my hand turned red,

an echo of impact,

a reminder of how life pushes back hard

when I am only trying to move through it.

The toilet was quiet —

no banging, no stares,

just a small mercy.

Bicycles blocked the way,

forcing me to walk another side.

Even in these detours,

I kept going.

On the company bus,

I sat beside a colleague.

I offered a fist bump —

not waiting to be invited,

but choosing connection.

She moved away later,

yet the choice was mine:

to reach, to smile, to share joy.

Through it all,

I remembered a message that came in the night:

“It’s okay.”

Simple, steady words,

offered at 2:40am,

like a lantern in the dark.

And I thought of the days left —

fifty-eight until my birthday.

Not a countdown to candles or gifts,

but a tally of survivals:

the roar of vacuums,

the bumps and red hands,

the bicycles and detours,

the fist bumps and quiet mercies.

Each day survived is its own victory.

And today —

this was enough.