Fragments · compiled 9 May 2026

Five minutes

Small pieces written in the gap between one ordinary task and the next — none of them meant to become essays.

I started this page because long drafts were collecting dust in my notes app. These fragments are the opposite: finished before I could talk myself out of them. Read one while waiting for water to boil. Read three if the bus is late. I filed them in the stairwell by hour, but here they sit in the order I typed them.

The kettle clicks off and the corridor answers with a single cough through the wall — not complaint, just presence. I pour before the water cools and stand at the sink longer than necessary, listening to a delivery bike climb the ramp from the street.

Written with the kettle on · 16 January 2026

Shoes outside every gate before eight: sandals, school pairs, one set of slippers that belong to the uncle who visits his daughter on Sundays. I count them the way other people check headlines — not for news, but for rhythm.

Written before the block woke up · 24 January 2026

Half the shutter is down. The worker smokes by the metal door without looking at his phone. Inside, someone wipes a table in slow circles. I walk past because I already ate, but the smell of toast follows me to the corner.

Written after the shops shut · 2 February 2026

A coffee shop shutter half closed at evening with warm light inside — Half the shutter down — the table wiped in slow circles.

Tap card, green arrow, descent into the cool tunnel. My body knows which side to stand on without looking at the floor stickers. A teenager offers a seat to an auntie who refuses twice before accepting on the third insistence — a small negotiation repeated across the city every morning.

Written on the way somewhere · 18 February 2026

The desk lamp throws a circle on unopened mail. I write one sentence, delete half, write again. The bulb hums the way old bulbs do — not broken, just honest about its age. Outside, a child learns to ride a bicycle in the carpark with training wheels clicking.

Written with the kettle on · 4 March 2026

A desk lamp illuminating handwritten pages and an envelope — The warm circle on unopened mail — one sentence, then another.

Rain on the window makes the bus numbers soft. I watch the 133 pass without boarding because I am not going anywhere yet — just checking that the route still exists on days when everything else feels uncertain. The glass holds my reflection and the street at once.

Written after the shops shut · 21 March 2026

Rain streaks on a window with blurred street lights beyond — Fine rain — the kind you feel only on your face.

On the park connector a heron stands in shallow water as if it owns the afternoon. Cyclists pass without bells. I step aside and think about an email I am avoiding, then decide the heron has the better policy: stand still until the thing you want comes within reach.

Written on the way somewhere · 30 April 2026

A park connector path beside the Kallang River with trees and grey sky — The long way along the connector — when I am avoiding a particular email.

The lift mirror shows me holding a bag of oranges and a receipt I forgot to throw away. Floor eight. The corridor smells of detergent and someone’s dinner. I realise I have been humming the same tune since the market — not because I like it, but because it kept my hands steady on the bag’s torn handle.

Written after the shops shut · 14 June 2026

→ the whole stairwell