🌙 June 19 – A Soft Storm

Today was full.

I carried more than just a heavy bag —

I carried the weight of eyes watching,

voices raised,

and feelings I couldn't quite name.

A cough in the silence.

A coloring done with care.

A whisper of kindness,

and advice wrapped in gentle words —

“Smile through it. Breathe.”

I did not scream.

I did not cry.

But something inside me folded, like paper in the rain.

Still,

I smiled a little when someone said thank you.

Still,

I listened. I adjusted.

I tried.

Maybe tomorrow will be softer.

Maybe the weight will shift.

For now, I rest my thoughts in this page,

and hold on to a quiet truth:

Even storms pass.

Even petals bloom again.

A Morning Like This

Even when the world begins in a storm —

when voices clash,

when your throat aches,

when coffee doesn’t stay —

you are still here.

You stood up.

You caught the bus.

You noticed the Milo.

You saw someone fall,

and you stayed aware.

Your presence matters,

even in silence.

Even if no one says thank you.

Even when the chair just says your name.

Take one breath.

Then another.

Not every moment has to be strong.

Some can just be soft.

🌙 “Just One More Dawn”

Lately, rest has felt like something I have to fight for. This piece is a reminder — for myself and anyone else who feels overwhelmed — that healing takes time, and softness is not weakness.

You do not need to explain

why your hands are tired,

or why your breath feels like

it carries the weight of silence.

Tonight, rest does not ask for permission.

It simply arrives,

like a quiet moon through the curtains,

gathering your sorrow

and humming lullabies

only your heart can hear.

You are not lazy for being ill.

You are not weak for needing space.

You are simply a garden in recovery—

growing, even in the shade.

So take this moment.

Let the world wait.

Let your body soften.

You have survived today,

and that is more than enough.

— gentle as a whisper, just for you

"Quiet Strength"

It did not roar,

nor demand to be seen.

It did not arrive with applause

or the shine of medals.

It was in the way I rose again,

after a night of ache and silence.

In the moment I chose

not to shout back,

but breathe,

and let the words fall away.

It was in my stillness—

the quiet refusal to break

even when misunderstood,

even when unseen.

A strength that whispered,

“You are still here.

You are still whole.”

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe quiet strength

is the loudest kind after all.

“Even When They Don’t Believe Me”

I carry a quiet fever in my chest,

a cough that echoes what I cannot say.

They think I fake it—this ache, this rest—

but pain has no script, and truth finds its way.

My body folds like petals in the rain,

soft, tired, worn by battles they can’t see.

Still I rise, again and again,

not for them—but gently, for me.

I am not lazy. I am not weak.

This pause is not failure—it’s grace.

Even if their words come sharp and bleak,

I hold peace in my sacred space.

So let them talk, let judgment fall—

I choose healing, slow and true.

Even when no one sees it at all,

I believe in what I’m going through.

“The Morning That Grew Too Loud”

I only wanted silence

after the sting of saline drops

and a soft tissue in my hand.

But voices rose,

not to lift me,

but to crush me under words like “lazy.”

I held my bowl,

not for sweetness,

but for restraint.

I didn’t throw it.

I could’ve.

But I didn’t.

She left.

I stayed.

And even in her anger,

she asked if I needed medicine.

The world is loud.

I am learning

to breathe before the echo.

🌙 Between Moments A quiet reflection by C.O.

 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.

While the Fever Rose by Celine Ong

 

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.

What I Don’t Say Out Loud

 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.

“不要吵我了”

— 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.

🌧 The Rain Still Came, But So Did I

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.

The Earth Once Called Me

 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.

🌸 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.

Reflection

  

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.

Journal Entry: In Between Spaces

 

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.