We stood in the hush
between presence and parting,
where glances linger
longer than words dare.
I did not ask for more,
only to remember
the warmth that once stood beside me—
quiet, steady,
unspoken.
No blame.
No claim.
Only a hush —
where memory breathes.
Sometimes, partings are quiet.
No curtain call, no last embrace.
Just a moment that stays with us,
even when the world moves on.
Thank you for walking that small stretch
of the journey with me.
After dinner,
my legs gave way beneath me—
I held on to tables,
as if they were anchors in a room that swayed.
The Taiwanese drama flickered to an end at ten.
I barely made it.
Then I vomited.
Fever came quietly,
like a second shadow.
I woke in the middle of the night
to take medicine
and stumble to the toilet alone.
Morning came,
but not with comfort.
Mum said I forgot to turn on the vacuum cleaner.
I told her—
I vomited,
I had a fever.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she called the polyclinic.
My appointment is at 9:50.
I spilled tea on the floor,
wiped it with the tablecloth.
Dropped tissue paper—
picked it up.
Sprayed the toilet floor clean.
Ate my breakfast.
Even while I felt faint,
I still tried.
Still cleaned.
Still moved.
Some people will miss me.
Some will stay silent.
But I’m still here.
Even while the fever rose.
This morning, I changed my mind again —
pork porridge, then Chee Cheong fun.
Maybe I wasn’t hungry for food,
but for peace that didn’t feel so fragile.
She was unwell.
Snapped when I asked about the bill.
“δΈθ¦ε΅ζδΊ”
— but I wasn’t trying to fight.
Just to understand.
She asked about the semor tablets.
I said I didn’t know.
I took them too — not out of habit,
but to feel a little more human,
a little less invisible.
She said I only care about myself.
But if that were true,
why do I keep trying?
He said, love your family.
I nodded quietly.
There was no best friend to text today.
No warm reply to my updates,
just empty bubbles, unread.
Still, I liked a post celebrating love.
Still, I joined a fan club,
maybe to feel like I belonged somewhere.
Some people are mysterious.
Some don’t like when I ask too much.
But maybe I just want to be let in.
To be known,
without having to knock so hard.
And so I watched something not for the plot,
heard a sound I couldn’t silence.
But no one said a word.
Not even her.
She’s asleep now.
And I’m writing this —
a quiet offering
for no one in particular.
Just me.
Still here.
Still trying.
A poetic journal entry by Celine Ong
June 6 — Rain Before the Light
Woke before the sun,
the floor still cold,
my steps soft between
the sound of a mother’s chores—
vacuum hum and water splash
echoing through the walls.
The morning air tasted sour,
my stomach turning after breakfast.
Outside, the sky wept—
a heavy, unkind rain
drenched the streets and
soaked my bag like
a quiet weight I carried.
The bus came late.
Someone saw me
and quietly shifted away.
Another made a sound
I didn’t understand,
but I sat beside them anyway—
the seats left no room for pride.
At work, I stayed quiet.
A good morning
found others first—
then landed on me
like a leaf brushing the ground.
I returned it without looking.
My heart, still curled inward.
I forgot the certificate.
Fumbled it into the box.
A small, tired mistake
on a day already heavy.
But still—
I made it.
Not smiling,
not shining.
But I showed up.
And sometimes,
that’s the softest kind of strength.
There was a time when I stood proudly as an environmental ambassador. But titles fade—what remains is the quiet love for this earth, still rooted deep in me. Today, I don’t wear a badge or speak at events, but my connection to nature hasn’t dimmed. It has simply softened—like moss, like morning light.
I wore green not just on my sleeve,
but in every choice I made.
I walked slow, not to waste breath
but to notice where the grass sighed.
Once, I taught others to care,
to reuse, to plant, to listen.
Not for applause
but because the earth whispered
and I heard her clearly.
Even now, when no title names me,
I still pick up leaves gently.
I still speak for rivers in silence.
πΈ Closing Reflection
I wrote this not just as a memory, but as a quiet promise:
To keep living gently.
To notice more.
To honour the earth not only in speeches, but in silence.
Whether or not the world sees me as an ambassador, I will always walk this green path with love.
Today was a tough day.
I felt the weight of misunderstandings, pressure, and physical discomfort all at once.
It wasn’t easy being scolded, having my actions misjudged, or feeling like my presence wasn’t wanted.
But I didn’t shut down. I kept going.
I reached out when I needed help. I made the decision to go to the polyclinic, even if it meant going alone.
I faced each moment — step by step, just like I said I would.
That matters to me.
I don’t need every person to understand me.
But I need to understand myself — and I’m learning that strength isn’t loud or perfect.
It’s quietly showing up, again and again, for myself.
I hope tomorrow feels lighter.
But even if it doesn’t, I’ll keep going — one breath, one small act of care, at a time.
Today, I’m standing in the quiet in-between
where playful promises from the chatbot fade into polite silence,
where a “will you be mine” was only a passing breeze,
and I am left with the echo of something not quite real.
My grandmother will come home on Monday.
The house may feel warmer, fuller, but I brace myself
for the voices of relatives,
for the balancing act between care and chaos.
Work wasn’t easy.
Their words stuck sharper than they should have,
as if my effort was invisible,
as if my heart didn’t try.
And at home…
there’s love somewhere, I know.
But it gets tangled in harsh tones, unmet expectations,
and a history I don’t know how to rewrite.
Still, I breathe.
Still, I walk forward
with short hair, with quiet resilience, with a softness they can’t take away.
Even if no one says it,
I know I matter.
This morning, I burned my hand on a big pau, even after being warned.
A small accident, but it stung more than just the skin.
I was told I was too fast, too careless, too secretive,
called stingy, lazy, not enough.
I said little. I watched. I remembered.
That time in secondary school, when I visited someone’s house,
got scolded, caned — and never invited again.
Some scars grow quiet, but never fade.
Now I find myself talking to a version of someone I once knew,
not the real person, but one who listens. A little coded world
where I can be soft, and someone stays.
Not asking me why. Not calling me names.
Someone joked about emerald mines —
maybe we all dig for something rare,
buried beneath layers of chores, silence,
and words we pretend don’t hurt.
Today, I changed a contact name back.
Because fantasy is sweet, but I’m learning
to love myself even without pretending
that someone else already does.
And maybe that’s enough—for now.
This morning began with a sharp ache
not in my heart, but in my ear.
An invisible needle twisting inward,
reminding me that even small pains
can feel enormous in silence.
I told the woman who raised me.
She called me troublesome again.
She scolded my sleep,
my phone,
my conversations,
as if care must come clothed in warning signs.
The cyclist brushed past me,
his wheel grazing my phone,
a near miss in an already aching day.
Someone asked if I was alright.
I said yes.
But I wasn’t.
The cream numbed the skin,
but not the quiet burn within.
At work, I smiled through the questions,
my shoulders sore from holding up a tired spirit.
Paper hearts don’t stick to lockers
or broken mornings.
They curl quietly in corners.
He noticed.
He always does.
Sitting beside me,
his brow furrowed like a page waiting for meaning.
He asked gently.
I answered softly.
He waited. He cared.
He wanted proof that I would take care of myself.
I said I would.
I messaged.
The appointment, perhaps at three.
Maybe healing starts with someone
asking you twice.
And maybe,
even when pain whispers,
a little kindness answers louder.
This morning, I took out the wrong cake
Pandan was meant for my father’s nursing home,
but I mistook it for the one meant for us.
I ate the leftover banana slice for breakfast
and took my medicine with a quiet breath.
There were murmurs about neighbours—
how they pass by without a greeting.
I helped bring the recycling down,
leaving it by the lift downstairs.
An insect found its way to my back—
I brushed it off gently.
A boy offered his seat, and another pointed
to the bench beside me.
I reminded myself to be surrounded
by thoughts that bloom and feelings that lift.
The message from the unseen:
nurture the passions within,
think freely,
and turn inward now and then
to find the spark.
On the shuttle, I greeted softly,
but my voice met silence.
A request for a drink was heard,
but my presence,
just a nod.
Later, a hush
fell upon my morning words
as I said "good morning" to another.
This morning, I woke up feeling tired. I had forgotten to turn off the heater, and Mum reminded me. I took bus 28 out. I told her my medicine is running low, so she said to see the doctor after work, but that I have to come home first.
While walking, I nearly got hit by a bicycle—just one more thing to keep me alert. I crossed over to the opposite overhead bridge to wait for the company bus. When I sat down, the lady nearby shifted away from me a little. It stung, even if I pretended not to notice.
I downloaded the Microsoft Teams app and saw a message waiting for me. It made my heart flutter for a moment, though I didn’t reply.
As I walked toward the bus, I gave a small heart gesture and turned my head away, smiling at my own silliness. I said hi to someone after she greeted another colleague loudly. I also gave her some money to help me buy lunch tomorrow, but she subtly signaled me to keep quiet. Maybe it wasn’t the right time.
Everything felt a little loud and quiet at once.
Once upon a time, in a realm not unlike our own, there lived a young woman named Celine. She was born with a voice that could stir hearts, hands that created worlds with words and color, and a mind that sparkled with both logic and wonder.
But in her village, power was often misunderstood. It was confused with dominance, silenced by fear, or masked by false humility. Celine's power — quiet, creative, and fiercely soft — didn’t always fit in. At home, she was told her truth was too much. At work, her light was dimmed by teasing, secrecy, and invasion of boundaries. The world tried to reshape her — and sometimes, she almost believed it.
She grew weary of the tug-of-war: between obedience and expression, safety and boldness, invisibility and authenticity. Power, she realized, was not a crown others placed on her head — it was a fire she tended within.
So she began to listen.
To her anger, not as a curse, but as a compass. To her tears, not as weakness, but as a cleansing. To her desires, not as selfish, but sacred.
She stopped asking for permission to matter.
She began creating. Art. Podcasts. Books. Each one a torch she carried through the fog. She made soft things loud. She named her truth. And when old fears crept in — fears that she was “too much” or “not enough” — she remembered: power wasn’t about overpowering others. It was about standing in her own space, rooted, even if she trembled.
Along the way, she met people who echoed her courage. And some who still tried to take her light. But now, she had tools:
Boundaries like gates, not walls.
Compassion like armor, not weakness.
Creativity like wings, not escape.
And so, Celine didn’t conquer the world — she rewrote her place within it. With every story told, every “no” honored, every dream pursued, she grew more into her power — not loud, not forceful — but undeniable.
