The morning began with my mum’s voice reminding me of time.
The sky still held its quiet before the rush.
I hurried, letting her bathe first,
and left for the lift before she came down.
The bus was crowded,
so I sat by the wheelchair space,
feeling the gaze of a stranger who did not know my story.
When I alighted, a woman pulled her child closer,
as if distance could protect her from what she did not understand.
I crossed the road, took the lift,
and a runner brushed past, his arm grazing my phone.
The rain came soon after—thick, heavy, uninvited.
Inside the bus to work, I watched droplets race down the glass,
each one tracing its own fragile direction.
At the lockers, I bumped into someone familiar.
The clink of my keychain startled me back to the moment.
I saw faces—Darren, Xin Hui, Teck Mui—
small reminders that even routine carries echoes of connection.
A hand reached for mine, then let go.
I walked the stairs alone, steady in my own steps.
At lunch, I heard words that stung—
a sharp tone, a misunderstanding,
yet I chose not to let it stay.
The rain had taught me something:
even when skies turn dark,
we keep walking toward what matters.
Today, I am grateful for the quiet will to continue,
for the strength to move forward
and to focus on what truly holds light.
