Day 2: Fish-Sized Hope. Just a penguin trying to make out in… | by Penguin Kumari

This morning I woke up with the bold confidence of a penguin who thinks she has cracked the code to survival. The plan? Simple: wear clean feathers, drink water that isn’t essentially liquid anxiety (looking at you, Red Bull), and stop crying over bread crusts like they’re Shakespearean tragedies.

Reader, I failed. Before breakfast.

But here’s the plot twist — I didn’t spiral. While waddling past my reflection in the ice wall, I noticed my feathers were… almost okay. Not magazine-cover sleek. Not “oh wow, did a stylist touch you?” But passable. And in penguin math, passable equals miracle.

The world, of course, still hums like a refrigerator on its last leg. Anxiety soundtrack, constant static, the kind of buzzing that makes you want to throw the whole planet out the window. But for a slippery moment, I wondered: maybe the hum is music I just haven’t figured out how to dance to yet. Maybe the cold is less punishment and more free air conditioning. Maybe the crumbs on my desk are proof of life instead of proof of tragedy.

Tomorrow, I’ll probably sink again. But today — I bobbed. I floated. I did not go extinct.

And that’s a victory for now.

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Love,

PK 🐧

(The K is silent. Like my plan to “get my life together” by the weekend.)

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