Lost A

Author: lost A

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter One: The Glass Waterslide in Hangzhou

    A Million Dreams – Chapter One: The Glass Waterslide in Hangzhou

    A Note About the Video: The video in this post is from Instagram it’s not mine.

    There’s a new series I’ve been wanting to start on this blog a quiet collection of things I wish I could do, places I wish I could go, and little dreams that live in the corners of my imagination. I’m calling it A Million Dreams, because that’s exactly what it feels like: a soft list of wishes, saved gently for someday.

    And the first dream on that list is a waterslide tucked inside the mountains of Hangzhou, China, the longest glass waterslide in the world.

    The slide runs like a clear ribbon through the green hills, built entirely from thick glass so you can see the world beneath you as you glide. Bamboo forests, stones, the curve of the mountain everything becomes part of the ride. It’s fast, but not wild; thrilling, but not reckless. A kind of flying that keeps you close to the earth.

    If I ever get the chance to try it, I already know one thing: I’m sitting in the back of the raft.

    I’m absolutely too scared to be the person in front, the brave one who sees every turn coming. I want to be the person who holds on from behind, laughing, screaming, pretending I’m calm while the mountains carry me forward. It feels like the perfect balance between courage and comfort.

    This waterslide is officially on my bucket list. And I don’t mind when it happens. Maybe one day soon. Maybe when I’m old and wrinkly and still collecting dreams. Maybe when life feels slow and I need something that reminds me I’m still made of motion. Whenever it happens, I want it to be a moment I look back on and smile a small, sparkling adventure tucked inside the mountains.

  • Kind eyes

    Kind eyes

    There’s a quiet language in kind eyes. They don’t speak, yet they tell stories of gentleness, patience, and the way light bends when someone truly sees you. Eyes are the windows to the soul not because they reveal secrets, but because they reflect emotion in its purest form. When someone looks at you with kindness, it feels like a small, warm truth settling inside your heart a reminder that you’re safe, that you’re held in that moment, that you matter.

    Eyes of honey hold a warmth that feels endless. You can dive into them, lose yourself in their glow, like falling into a night sky scattered with stars. They shimmer with empathy soft, golden, and infinite. There’s something almost sacred about the way honey eyes meet yours; it feels like being invited into a quiet universe where everything slows down. In their light, you find comfort, curiosity, and a softness that feels rare the kind that makes you want to stay a little longer, look a little deeper, breathe a little slower.

    Kind eyes carry entire worlds. Joy flickers like stardust, sorrow pools like deep water, hope glows like a distant constellation waiting to be found. Every glance is a confession gentle, unspoken, honest. And when those honey eyes linger on you, even for a heartbeat, it feels like the universe is choosing you. Emotion becomes visible, almost touchable, and you realize that eyes don’t just show what someone feels… they show who they are.

  • Second best

    Second best

    Some months ago, I tasted a cheesecake that ruined all other cheesecakes for me the kind of perfection that quietly rewrites your standards. And now that I can’t have it anymore, I find myself reaching for Godiva’s strawberry cheesecake instead. It’s lovely, truly… but it’s not the one.

    Katy Perry once sang about how comparisons come easily after perfection, and I feel that line every time the fork touches the plate. You don’t forget the first perfect thing. You just learn to live gently with the second best.

    The cheesecake that rewrote my standards is long gone, so I’m settling for Godiva’s strawberry tonight a gentle goodbye before the diet starts tomorrow.

  • A mother’s love

    A mother’s love

    A mother’s love doesn’t always arrive from the woman who raised us. Sometimes, life places that love in unexpected hands in a mother‑in‑law whose kindness feels gentler than anything we’ve known, whose affection grows slowly, quietly, almost shyly, until one day we realize it has become a steady part of our life.

    We may not talk often. We may not share the same interests or hobbies. Our conversations might be short, polite, even a little awkward. But love doesn’t need perfect symmetry. Sometimes it lives in the small, intentional gestures the ones that speak louder than words.

    She shows her love through food, the oldest language of care. She remembers your favorite dishes, cooks them especially for you, and sends them to your home with a kind of proud tenderness. She praises you to others, speaks of you fondly, and her face tightens with hurt when someone disrespects you. Her love is quiet but loyal, soft but protective. It stands up for you even when you’re not there to hear it.

    And then there is the father‑in‑law the unexpected warmth. He calls you “my beloved” حبيبتي shares funny videos and interesting things he finds online, as if saving them just for you. He offers you his favorite chocolates and fruits, and when he sees you enjoy them, he buys more and sends them your way. His affection is simple, honest, and full of intention.

    He trusts you with the parts of himself he may hide from others. His deepest thoughts, his quiet worries and his tender emotions. He cries in front of you, not out of weakness, but out of comfort. That’s simply different, a space where he can be vulnerable without words.

    Together, they’ve become something I never expected: a second set of parents. Not by blood, not by tradition, but by love, the kind that chooses you, protects you, and stays.

  • The farewell tour

    The farewell tour

    I decided to give myself a tiny farewell tour before my healthy meal plan subscription takes over my life, but it started in the most unexpected way. I went to an Italian restaurant, a place I won’t name because it doesn’t deserve the honor and immediately felt overwhelmed. The tables were practically breathing on each other, I could even hear the guy at the next table chewing, which somehow made everything worse.the crowd was loud enough to rattle my nerves, and the service moved at the speed of a sleepy snail. Even the food was just… fine. Average. Nothing worth remembering. I left feeling like the universe was telling me, “Enough restaurants for now.”

    The rest of the day felt kinder. I stopped by Altitude Roasters for my usual order, only to find it sold out, so I tried something new Amber Flow, this apple‑orange‑hibiscus‑cold‑brew situation that tasted like a small adventure in a cup. Then I went to Pick to try the new mango sticky rice ice cream everyone’s been talking about. It wasn’t mind‑blowing, but it was enjoyable in that quiet, comforting way. And somehow, these tiny stops felt like a soft wave goodbye the kind you give with a small smile, knowing you’re ready to walk toward something a little more intentional, a little more grounded, and exactly what you need right now.

  • Sharing is caring

    Sharing is caring

    Kids aren’t born knowing how to share it’s something they grow into slowly, like learning how to trust the world. In the beginning, everything feels precious to them: every toy, every crayon, every tiny treasure they hold in their hands. Sharing doesn’t come naturally at first, and that’s okay. With time, with patience, with gentle examples from the people around them, they begin to understand that giving a little piece of what they love doesn’t take anything away from them. It simply opens a small door to connection.

    Sharing is one of the quiet ways we show love. It isn’t only about toys or food or things we can hold. We share emotions when we sit with someone’s sadness. We share ideas when we talk about our dreams. We share burdens when life feels heavy, and we share joy when something beautiful happens. Sharing is caring because it says: I want you to feel what I feel. I want you to be part of my world. It’s a soft, human gesture that ties people together.

    And in our society, this shows up in the sweetest everyday rituals. When a woman goes to a party and receives the usual giveaway chocolates, she doesn’t always eat them right away. She keeps them, tucked gently in her bag, saving them for home. Later, she breaks them into tiny bites to share with her loved ones while she talks about the event, the fun moments, the laughter, the latest gossip. And somehow, sharing that small piece of chocolate during these conversations strengthens the bond. It’s silly, almost too simple, yet it connects people. That tiny bite becomes a warm bridge between her night out and the people she comes home to, turning a sweet treat into a shared moment of closeness.

  • Shameme = same same

    Shameme = same same

    Matching items have a quiet charm. Whether it’s bracelets, socks, shirts, or tiny charms hidden and some drawer, they turn ordinary objects into symbols of connection. People choose to match because it feels like creating a small shared world, a gentle “us” that exists inside the bigger, louder one. Matching is never really about the item, it’s about the meaning stitched into it. It’s a soft ritual of belonging, a way of saying we’re linked, even in the simplest ways.

    Matching makes people feel seen, chosen, and held close. There’s comfort in knowing someone wants to mirror you, even in something small. It creates emotional closeness, strengthens bonds, and turns moments into memories. Psychologists call it a form of mirroring a natural human behavior that builds trust and warmth. When two people match, they’re not just sharing an object, they’re sharing a feeling, a tiny spark of joy that says you and I are connected in this moment.

    My niece reminds me of this magic every time she looks at our matching bracelets. Her whole face lights up, and she taps on her wrist and mine with her little voice saying, “shameme” meaning same same. It’s her way of claiming the bond, of celebrating that we belong together. In that moment, the bracelet becomes more than jewelry it becomes a shared heartbeat, a tiny thread tying us side by side. Her joy is the purest proof that matching isn’t about style, it’s about love made visible.

  • Pickles

    Pickles

    I hate pickles. I hate how they smell, the texture the taste, they are disgusting and they destroy any food they are in. I just don’t like pickles not even a little. There’s something about them that barges into every dish, uninvited and impossible to ignore. They hide in burgers, sneak into sandwiches, float in salads, and somehow appear in meals that have no business being in them. And every time, they take over the whole flavor, drowning the balance I actually wanted. It feels like pickles are everywhere, waiting to ruin a perfectly good bite with their awful personality, and honestly… I’m tired of fighting them off.

    But unfortunately, I’m stuck with pickles whether I like it or not. They’re everywhere, and at some point I realized I had two choices: keep fighting them forever or learn to compromise. So I started picking around them, pushing them aside, trying to make peace with their existence. And slowly, I realized that when life insists on giving you pickles, you might as well search for the tiniest thing you can tolerate about them and live with it. Somehow and I still don’t fully understand how I think I’m starting to like pickled onions. They’re gentler, sweeter, less aggressive, almost polite compared to the usual offenders. Maybe I just needed to lower my expectations and accept that pickles are pickles; they will never be coffee, and I should stop expecting them to be coffee. So here I am, calling a truce in my long war with pickles a small, surprising step toward accepting that maybe not all of them are out to ruin my meals.

    Last week, I somehow found myself putting pickled onions on almost every meal I had everything except breakfast. I used them with rice, tucked them into sandwiches, paired them with Mexican food, Lebanese food, literally anything that crossed my plate. Breakfast was the only safe zone. But then, over the weekend, I had this wild idea: what if I added them to my usual scrambled eggs with labna and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar? So I tried it… and it was surprisingly yummy. Maybe giving pickles a chance isn’t the worst idea. People do change, after all. Maybe there’s hope. And since I can’t have coffee all the time anymore, I guess pickled onions will have to do for now, at least until the future decides to surprise me again.

    Ps: the photo contains three pieces of leftover reheated sambosa from one of my favorite restaurants