After-Hours Musings - By Aya Carrim

Written By: Aya Carrim

Category: Short Story (Fiction)

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the reflective short story "After-Hours Musings," Aya Carrim delves into the intimate world of late-night thoughts and introspection. Submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this work invites readers into the quiet hours where self-doubt and familial bonds intertwine. Aya's narrative captures the essence of sleepless nights, where the mind wrestles with creativity and identity.

About the Work

"After-Hours Musings" explores themes of insomnia, self-worth, and the complexities of family relationships. With a contemplative tone, Aya Carrim weaves a narrative rich in introspection and vivid imagery, such as the ticking grandfather clock and the scent of morning dew. The story reflects on the struggle between societal expectations and personal fulfillment, ultimately embracing the beauty found in everyday life.

After-Hours Musings

Original Submission by Aya Carrim

It’s 4:30 am.

Most nights, I struggle to fall asleep. I can’t remember the last time I had a deep, dreamless rest. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to wake up feeling truly refreshed. Instead, I’m up trying to write this thing, while that daunting feeling of never being able to write anything good enough for anyone to read creeps in. Maybe this is what they call imposter syndrome. Perhaps a cup of tea will help the process. I’m not sure whether I’m more productive after midnight, or if I’ve just always convinced myself that these bad habits will eventually get me somewhere.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m too afraid to sleep, because I know I’d wake up questioning whether I’ve done enough to deserve rest. While other times, I psychoanalyse if this is the long-term effect of my having suffered Asian parenting? The idea that if you’re not busy doing something all the time, then you’re wasting time. Is that why parents pack their children’s weekend schedules to the brim? I wonder if it’s realistic to not expect one to burn out when we were never really taught how to rest.

There’s a thought that keeps recurring in my mind, living there rent-free:

What can I write that hasn’t been done before?

The thought of constantly comparing myself to my favourite poets and writers is crippling, yet at the same time, motivating me to be better. Will I ever know when I’m good enough? It’s 4:40 am now and I’m making tea. It’s taken me 5 minutes to decide if I should put one spoon of sugar or two. Fearing the tea will be too sweet. Fearing yet another impending sleepless night. I can hear the ticking of my late grandfather's clock. It's such a big clock that makes a loud sound every quarter of an hour. It used to scare me when I was little. I hated hearing the clock clang its bells every 15 minutes that passed. As I stare at the hands of the clock pointing to 4:45, a loud bang fills the entire floor, sending ripples of vibrations from the bells into my ears. By the time the sound fades, it's 4:46. Then, 4:47.

Ah, fuck it. Two spoons it is. We all know I’m not sleeping tonight. I sit down and turn on this ancient fan we’ve had since I was 4 years old. Yellow-stained rims and plastic blades rattle on incessantly. If it’s still working, why waste money to buy a new one? My mother lives by these words, and even at this hour they echo in my mind.

My mother grew up poor. Even though our family's current status is well above middle-class Malaysia, she can’t help but live as if this bungalow could suddenly evaporate into thin air tomorrow—she and Papa had fought too hard to get it. I do not blame her for this irrational thought. I get it. I was born with privilege. My mother and I are what we say, same same but different. We argue a lot, but we do not argue about everything. I make up excuses for why she still keeps this fan. Perhaps it is to remind her how far she has come. Maybe everything is sentimental to her. Or maybe I just don't appreciate things as much as she does. Truthfully, I didn't need to struggle and fight the way she did.

I stare blankly into my living room, and I see Hiro sleeping on the deep brown parquet flooring with his legs spread open. Such a carefree chonki cat living his best life. I often feel envious of him. He is loved despite the multiple times he has pissed on my bed and pooped on the couch—mama will still call him baby. My grandfather’s clock chimes an ominous 5 dings and I realise, I’ve sat here doing nothing for 20 minutes. How can time move so fast when I’m not doing anything? This whole thing feels insufferable.

Feeling tired of my own thoughts and sick of my own lack of productivity, I bring my now lukewarm tea up the stairs. Hiro follows me and rubs his chin on my ankle. Cute! That’s his way of giving me a "hug". We really don't deserve animals. No matter how many times I've called him an ungrateful cat, he never fails to cheer me up. I'm sorry, Hiro. I'm sorry for all the times I called you chonki, ungrateful, and lazy. I love you. I'll buy you a big tin of wet food tomorrow.

I walk into my room, breathing in the chaos I see before me. They say your bedroom reflects your state of mind, but don’t quote me on that. I suppose my mind is in chaos. I see the basket of laundry that my mother has been nagging me to put away in my closet. Until I do it, the basket’s presence is a constant daily reminder, I already hang and fold for you also cannot put away, ah? I don’t want to sound ungrateful; I really do know it is a blessing that she does things for me, for which I am grateful, grateful for all the privileges I have but sometimes I wish she would just leave me be.

I don’t like being rushed to do things on someone else’s schedule, though admittedly, this is a balancing act I am still working on. Perhaps, Mama is working on her own issues as well. All she has ever known is taking care of my dad, and now, seven years after his sudden passing, she has shifted all her attention to taking care of her children. I’m fully aware of Mama’s tendency to mask her obsessive care for her 30-something-year-old children as a way of coping with her deeper anxiety, giving her a purpose to wake up each day. I remind myself that growing old is also its own process. Perhaps that’s all we’re ever doing on this giant piece of rock, just constantly adjusting.

I put the tea on my desk with my laptop and sit to try and write, but I get distracted by the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, in the shape of a mountain that needs to be washed. There’s the white bedsheet that I bought from Melbourne in 2010 that needs changing too, and the shelves covered in a thin layer of dust from the neighbour’s renovation that I swear I had only just wiped down yesterday. My mind sinks deeper into all the things I need to do but have not. Feeling defeated and ashamed, I recall the words of an old friend who once told me, “If you’re feeling overwhelmed, take a cold shower. A cold shower resets the brain.” I wonder why we don’t talk anymore. I won’t take a shower—that’s too much work—but I will wash my face. Just then I hear my mother’s Athan App emit a familiar sound. Ah! The call to morning prayer. I don’t actually remember the last time I prayed Subuh. It’s dawn now. Soon, the sun will rise.

I sit on my red IKEA office chair—not the most comfortable, but comfortable enough to serve its purpose. I stare at the sliver of light breaking through the grey curtains covering the window in front of me. In that small sliver of light, I notice tiny dust particles dancing up and down midair. The longer I watch them drift, ever so gracefully and slowly, the more beautiful they appear in the dawning light. A thought: Even dust particles dance, all the time when nobody is looking, they dance.

Suddenly, I become aware of the crisp morning air. I don’t remember it raining the day before, but this morning feels refreshingly cool. The little hairs on my arm perk up from the chill and I feel a shiver run down my spine. As soon as the slow winds made their way into the small opening of my window, I smelt the morning dew. I wonder if anyone else is experiencing this morning’s distinct scent in the same way that I am. More light floods into the room, I get up and take three tiptoed steps towards the window.

I look outside and hear that the birds are waking up, their synchronised chirps filling the morning as if trying to rouse everyone from their slumber. I hear cars zooming by, and I wonder if they are racing to beat rush hour already. What time does rush hour start now, anyway? I feel like every hour is rush hour when you live in KL. The buildup of traffic in front of my house can be seen clearly from my underused balcony. The papyrus plant I potted looks like it’s fighting for its life, and I feel guilty for neglecting it for so long. Is this what the quiet of the morning feels like? It’s kind of nice. The calm before the storm.

At this point, I have successfully suppressed four hours of anxiety. I won’t lie—most days I feel like I’m a second away from imploding, ready to spill my guts all over the floor, but I never actually do. Too many people rely on me to be stable, level-headed, always put together, and above all, functional. I recall a line from a TV series I watched, where one character says, “I make myself sick in order to make you feel good,” to which her partner replies, “Aww, that’s sweet.” She retorts with, “No, that’s fucked up.”

If that isn’t the perfect anecdote to my life, I don’t know what is.

I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Here I am, living with my insufferable thoughts when things are quiet, while I bear the burden I wonder—am I not the blueprint character praised by Asian elders, the kind they should be proud of? Sure, I can suck it up, do the necessary for the sake of the people who depend on me. Isn’t this what a responsible adult is supposed to do? I hate it when people try to use reverse psychology to get me to buy into the Western idea of self-care. “Take care of yourself, dear. You need a holiday.” Sometimes, a knot forms in my stomach when I hear those words, and I have the urge to scream a loud and rather long, “FUCK YOU!”, but my mother would put cili padi in my mouth and remind me, "Well-mannered girls don’t behave like that".

The thing is, I know I can’t blame God for this feeling I’ve successfully self-inflicted. We all carry unhealed childhood trauma that follows us like a shadow sewn into the fabric of our being. But damn. Who knew it would be this exasperating to confront it as an adult? I wish I had the audacity to blame God, though. Yet, as soon as I want to curse this superbeing, I’m reminded of the smell of morning dew, the little dust particles dancing mid-air, the sliver of light breaking through my bedroom, the tightness of Niko’s hugs, the fact that my cat knows exactly when to rub against me to make me feel better, the perfect shade of pink frangipani flowers in my front lawn, mama’s big laugh, this 40-year-old wooden house that keeps protecting my family, and the engraved fern leaves papa crafted while he was still alive. These things are all beautiful to me, and as I recount these images in my head at this moment, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

My father died seven years ago, and unsurprisingly, so did a part of me. So did parts of my brothers and my mother, too. We are all still recalibrating. Time goes on, but you never truly heal from grief. You just become more efficient in dealing with it. Death has taught me to be strong, even when I know I am barely hanging on. And because I am so proud to have my papa's last name, I keep going on, even if I’m uncertain of my purpose.

I’ve stopped chasing the need to feel constant happiness. I’ve stopped waiting for this feeling of heaviness to fade, as I am convinced it probably never will. Perhaps one day I will be confident enough in my writing to realise that the greatest pieces are not defined by 7-syllable words but by their measure of honesty. It's 8:30 am and I may still become riddled with self-deprecating thoughts and the constant fear of never being good enough but on this morning, I can proudly say that I am blessed—blessed to be kissed by a ray of light and feel that there is hope, to smell the air and know that I am still alive, to hear my ma’s voice and know that despite her condescending tone, love lives here. Such deep love.

Maybe one day I’ll write beautifully crafted poetry about the morning dew, and it will be deemed enough. But today—just for today—I will write down my thoughts in all of their mundanity and insignificance, learning to accept an ordinary life that embraces beauty, chaos, and ugliness equally.

And I hope for now, this will be enough.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates diverse voices in literature. It provides a platform for writers worldwide to share their unique stories and perspectives. The competition encourages creativity and artistic expression, fostering a global community of writers and poets.

Thank you, Aya Carrim, for sharing your evocative piece "After-Hours Musings" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your exploration of insomnia and the search for meaning amidst life's chaos offers a compelling narrative that resonates with many. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to more of your insightful storytelling.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.