This morning, I woke on my own. A small sweetness of honey after brushing, a bath, a breakfast — and still, the ache of almost-tears. My stomach hurt; I pressed oil against the pain before stepping out. On the bus, I carried myself quietly. The toilet doors slammed, the smell turned my stomach, the lift brought me down, and I sat quickly before another could. Small routines, sharp edges.
On the ride, someone joked “boss let boss.” I offered a greeting, but another refused to meet my eyes — silence sharper than words.
At work, I showed my hand, scratched and stinging. A simple reply came: “that’s sad. Rest first.” Ordinary words, yet carrying more gentleness than expected.
And I realize — what is said lightly about others does not erase the quiet ways I am seen. Depth does not laugh as easily, but it lingers.
Even with stomachaches, slammed doors, and silent refusals, I am grateful. I am still here. Still trying my best despite the weight. And that trying is its own kind of strength.
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