The morning began with cake offered —
a mix of sweetness in the midst of flu, cough, and sore throat.
I said “Ok” anyway.
Medicine swallowed, voice cracking,
but my mother’s reminder lingered:
“Drink more water.”
The vacuum roared before I left,
yet I still stepped out —
onto bus 28, into the day.
At the overhead bridge,
the bicycle’s hum, the rush across the road —
my body carried me forward.
Someone sat apart,
but her mother smiled,
and in that moment, I leaned closer,
chose conversation, chose connection.
On the shuttle, I greeted quietly.
I greeted again,
even as a whisper — a joke, maybe about me —
floated nearby.
Still, I didn’t shrink.
I stood, in my softness.
Words passed like wind,
a “good morning” moved along.
And me?
I stayed present.
I am not their background.
I am the quiet force —
an author, a podcaster, an artist —
who keeps showing up.
Even when my voice cracks.
Even when I’m unsure.
Later, a parcel on its way — my keychain.
I smile, though Mum scolds: “Why order again?”
Because I wanted to share the art I make real.
Chairs pushed, space brushed aside.
Yet I whisper: Happy Birthday.
Because even in small gestures,
I keep my light.
Not with noise.
But with unbreakable softness.
That is how I win. 🌙✨
