I am Farah

I am thirty-one and I temp at a small office near Tanjong Pagar — spreadsheets, courier calls, the kind of work that leaves my ears free to pick up whatever floats past the window. I live on Cantonment Close in Everton Park, fourth floor, with a neighbour who burns joss sticks on certain evenings and a coffeeshop downstairs that knows my teh order without me speaking.

StoryDrift began as a notebook habit. One overheard line each night — a fragment from a bus, a hawker table, an open window in Duxton. I typed them up because paper curls in this humidity and because a friend said my sentences sounded like they belonged to someone listening rather than performing. That felt accurate enough to keep going.

The city offers plots; I hold scraps.

What I collect: half-stories. The middle of an argument I will never hear resolved. A stall auntie's tale told between ladles. Radio bleeding from two shops at once. I am not writing fiction — I change details, blend timings, and never name private individuals.

My walks cover Everton Park, Duxton, Cantonment, Tanjong Pagar, Maxwell when I am hungry. I know the murals by colour rather than artist name. I know which bus stop bench has the least direct sun at four in the afternoon. I write with a little wryness because seriousness without humour feels dishonest to the place I live.

No sponsors, no courses, no Pte. Ltd. behind this site. It is mine, hosted cheaply, corrected when readers kindly point out mistakes.