Dear Diary,

I’ve just returned from the Lunar New Year festivities, and my heart feels so full that I must write it all down before the memories slip away.

The night still clings to me. The aroma of hot pot lingers in my hair and the delicate folds of my qípáo dress, the steady thrum of drums beats in my ears, and when I close my eyes, the lanterns continue to twinkle like suspended stars.

The dragon dancers were nothing short of spectacular, alive with colour, twisting and leaping like fire made flesh. Children squealed and darted between legs, their laughter harmonising with the music. All around me, voices (Mandarin, Cantonese, and a delightful medley of accents) rose together in shared joy. For a moment, the world felt beautifully united in shades of red and gold.

And then there were the red envelopes, oh, how I still love them, not merely for the treasure they hold inside (though I must admit, each one elicits a grin), but because they carry me back to my childhood: the thrill of anticipation, the warmth of home, the bright colours and pure mirth of the festival. Truly, the magic and wonder of those early years are folded into small envelopes, which I arrange in my drawer like bookmarks in the story of my youth.

Lunar New Year hasn't changed, and I don't think it ever will. Tonight, I’ll fall asleep with that comfort pressed close to me, a quiet reminder that belonging is one of the few gifts we can never outgrow.