How to Cook for One
Add a sunny side up, let the yolk run like it’s late for work.
Hi There!
I'm Titi. I write.
When I was young, I once asked my mom how I looked.
"Good," she replied, rather swiftly.
Then continued, "But you know, a mother cockroach would think her child looks pretty too."
So, here's a portfolio of my writing, vetted by journal editors - not my mother.
Enjoy!
Making Tea at Fajr
Old people slip and die, my daughters say.
Old people sleep and die; old people walk and die, I say. In the end, everyone dies.
Old people sleep and die; old people walk and die, I say. In the end, everyone dies.
My Daughter
She massaged my scalp and started talking immediately. Asked if I’m a mother. (I’m not). Asked what I do for work. (I don’t).
The Family We Choose
My name is Sri, but my customer service name was Shirley. “More familiar,” they told me. Her name was Sianne, but her real name, she said, was too hard to pronounce. “It’s not worth trying.”
At work, they called us the Asian duo. It didn’t matter that we came from different corners of the continent; we were the only two in the building.
Sianne used to take me to the Asian shop in town, through the pickled-vegetable aisles, telling me the ways she’d cook them. In exchange, I took us to the...
At work, they called us the Asian duo. It didn’t matter that we came from different corners of the continent; we were the only two in the building.
Sianne used to take me to the Asian shop in town, through the pickled-vegetable aisles, telling me the ways she’d cook them. In exchange, I took us to the...
Friendship in the Era of Lice-Ridden Dictators
All my friends have kids. Their friends have kids. Everyone has kids. Together, they meet and form a sticky kindergarten.
RE: I hope this email finds you well
“I hope this email finds you well,” you type, seemingly in carbon copies, echoing the many emails you’ve received in life. You pause, fingers over the letters: how can an email “find” you? Does it search? Does it knock? Does it find you well?
Two Portions of Fried Rice, Please
Across his shoulder pole hung rice, eggs, condiments, and a stove. He’d stop beneath our student windows to sauté some garlic, to let its scent slip inside the rooms.
How was your week?
I didn’t know who was who, only that one acted as the Alpha. I wasn’t devout enough to care, not defiant enough to scoff. I mouthed the prayers I never learned, and the Alpha looked back indifferently.
Three Missing Bananas
The story began as a memory fragment—a kitchen, a banana, and a strange emptiness. It grew into a story about grief that lingers, disguised in everyday life. I wanted to honour the small, tender moments that often go unspoken in many Southeast Asian households—moments that carry depth without needing to be named.
First published in Pandan Weekly in August 2025.
First published in Pandan Weekly in August 2025.
The Wins I Can Afford at 40
He slapped me three plastic bullets and a gun. “Aim at the prize,” a toothpick danced between his lips as he spoke. I took the gun and aimed at the sheep doll across the counter.
hey I just met you, and this is crazy
but here's my contact, so text me, maybe
I tell stories for a living—through literary writing, marketing strategy, brand communications, digital campaigns, and dashboards and numbers.
For speaking engagements, workshops, consulting, or just a "hi", please get in touch.
Pinky promise I won't ghost you.