August 14 – Crowded Paths, Quick Hands

Breakfast was warm, but the air between us felt a little sharp. I was told to use the kitchen toilet before the vacuum began, though it stayed silent for a while. A small coin of kindness — $1.40 for lunch — was pressed into my palm, wrapped in the word “troublesome.”

Outside, vehicles flashed their lights at me as I waited for the bus. The ride was crowded — a soft bump against a stranger, a misstep onto another’s shoe as I alighted, regret flickering through me. A man dropped something on the pavement; he bent and reclaimed it without a word. I crossed the road in a small run, took the lift, the stairs, and found my seat with a quiet “excuse me.”

On the shuttle, there was the gentle comedy of moments — a biscuit passed from one to another, a fist bump sealing the exchange. My chair jolted with a bump from behind; I let it pass.

By the time I reached work, greetings and silences shaped the space. Bags needed tying, fast and constant. My arm and elbow ached with each pull of the string, a steady throb under the rhythm of the task. I kept my pace, even when I fell behind, holding the day together with quiet determination.

🌧 August 5 – A Day of Mixed Currents

The morning began with quiet conversation. She spoke about her past work, and though my mind wandered, I listened. I mentioned how someone once told me — to separate work and personal life — and she nodded, said that was good. I shared about an outing by the sea, and she said she might call to check on it.

The vacuum cleaner started before I was ready. She told me to go behind the toilet. It was abrupt, but she still stood there to send me off. I carried the recycling down to the lift.

Later, someone checked in. I told him — I felt indifferent, yet stressed. He understood. He reminded me to speak gently, even when the day feels heavy. He asked about my plans — I said half-day work and a computer class. He smiled, offered dinner, but I said dinner was likely settled at home. Still, he hoped we could meet after.

A small slip happened — I placed my bag in a room and was reminded to ask first, even though I had greeted them just before. Maybe just a misunderstanding.

Someone offered a fist bump. It was a brief, warm gesture. A moment of ease.

Then, the app failed again — internal server error. A glitch in the system, echoing the quiet frustrations of the day.

When I paid for lunch, I was told not to walk off too quickly — just so they’d know who paid. I smiled and said, “I did.”