My name is Priya. I am in my late thirties. I grew up in Singapore, spent a few years overseas for work, and came home to settle in Bedok — Blk 88 Bedok North Street 4, where the lift sometimes smells like someone else's dinner and the corridor breeze carries the faintest salt from a sea you cannot quite see. I work in publishing support. The hours are steady. My attention is not always.
I started StoryWave because small moments kept slipping past me like water over sand. The hawker uncle who had my kopi ready before I spoke. A bench at East Coast that holds the same slant of afternoon light every Sunday. A pot of basil moving from one neighbour's window to another along a corridor I have walked since I was tall enough to reach the railing. These are not stories that belong in a group chat. They are ripples — brief, easy to forget, worth one honest paragraph each.
I write in first person because that is the only voice I trust for this. What you read here is what I saw, heard, or felt when I typed it. Memory shifts the way tide shifts a shoreline: familiar, slightly rearranged each time you return. I will revise if someone tells me I got a detail wrong — a street name, a date, a bus number I misremembered from across the road.
Bedok is not scenery I borrow for atmosphere. It is where I buy vegetables, where the auntie at the market asks after my mother, where void decks smell like rain on concrete and fried shallots at different hours of the same humid day. East Coast is my Sunday exhale — long bench, sea air, shoes full of sand I do not bother to shake out until I am home. Siglap sits between errands and family visits: old shophouses, narrow streets, the kind of quiet that makes you notice your own footsteps.
Most posts on this site are gentle. A remembered order. A bench. A bus stop listening in. A pot passed hand to hand. Driftwood that appeared overnight and belonged to no one. One piece goes deeper — a memory from near 51 Chin Swee Road that still returns when similar towers go quiet at dusk. I wrote it because some evenings leave a shape in you that never quite closes. Everything else stays closer to the ground, where the water is shallow and you can still see your feet.
I do not write to instruct anyone. I write because putting words on a page keeps the ripple visible a little longer. If a paragraph makes you think of your own hawker uncle, your own bench, your own corridor pot — that is enough. You do not need to agree with how I remember things. You only need to know these pages are mine.
If you want to reach me, use the contact form or email [email protected]. I read everything. I do not always reply quickly — life has its own swell and ebb — but I do reply.
Thanks for reading. Stay for one story or read the whole journal. Either way, you are welcome here.