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Category: a million dreams

  • A Million Dreams – chapter 10 : The Kind of Love I Dream About

    A Million Dreams – chapter 10 : The Kind of Love I Dream About

    If I could choose any love story in the world, it would probably surprise people. I would choose the kind of love Gomez and Morticia Addams have. I know they’re fictional characters, but there has always been something beautiful about the way they love each other. They never hide their affection, never play games, and never seem afraid to let the world see how much they care.

    What I admire most is that they choose each other every day. Years pass, life happens, and their love never feels like an obligation. They still look at one another with admiration and excitement, as if they know they have found something rare. In a world where distance and indifference are often mistaken for strength, their devotion feels refreshing.

    I also love how they live life on their own terms. They are different from everyone around them, but they never apologize for it. They create a life that makes them happy instead of chasing approval from others. There is something incredibly romantic about finding someone who stands beside you and says, “Let’s build our own world.”

    And then there is their family. Their home is unconventional, but it is filled with acceptance, loyalty, and belonging. Their love extends beyond the two of them and becomes the foundation of everything they create together. That, to me, is one of the most beautiful parts of their story.

    When I imagine love, I don’t dream about perfection. I dream about partnership, friendship, unwavering loyalty, and a home that feels safe from the noise of the world. If I could choose any love story, fictional or otherwise, I think I would still choose theirs. Not because their life is perfect, but because their love allows them to be completely and unapologetically themselves.

  • A Million Dreams – chapter 9: The Perfect Weekend Morning

    A Million Dreams – chapter 9: The Perfect Weekend Morning

    There is something deeply unfair about weekday mornings.

    An alarm blares at an unreasonable hour, responsibilities immediately start demanding attention, and before you’ve even had coffee, life is already asking things from you.

    But in my dream life, weekend mornings are different.

    I wake up naturally, without the sound of an alarm trying to ruin my happiness. No rushing. No schedules. Just soft morning light slipping through the curtains.

    The first thing I see when I open my eyes is my favorite person in the world, still asleep beside me.

    Honestly, I can’t imagine a better way to start a day.

    Before coffee. Before breakfast. Before anything.

    Just him.

    There is something so peaceful about watching someone you love sleep. The world feels quiet, safe, and somehow a little brighter. It is the kind of sight that fills your heart before your feet even touch the floor.

    Naturally, I would move a little closer for a cuddle.

    Eventually he would wake up, slowly and reluctantly, and neither of us would rush to get out of bed. We’d stay there for a while, enjoying the luxury of having nowhere important to be.

    No phones.

    No plans.

    Just the comfortable silence that only exists between two people who genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

    After finally convincing ourselves to leave our cozy little nest, we’d go brush our teeth and wash up.

    Still wearing yesterday’s pajamas, of course.

    Weekend rules.

    Then comes my favorite part.

    Coffee.

    Or rather, his coffee.

    Because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many tutorials I watch, no matter how fancy the coffee equipment gets, he simply makes better coffee than I do.

    It’s one of life’s mysteries.

    We would open the window and let the cool autumn breeze drift into the room. The weather would be perfect. The kind that makes you want to take a deep breath just because it feels nice.

    Standing side by side, coffee mugs warming our hands, we’d look out at the world waking up.

    And then I would ask the most important question of the morning.

    “Can we have pancakes and eggs for breakfast?”

    He’d smile and say yes.

    Obviously.

    Because every perfect morning deserves pancakes.

    In the kitchen, he’d immediately take charge as if he were hosting a cooking show nobody asked for.

    He’d mix the pancake batter while I cracked eggs for scrambled eggs. I would try to help, but somehow he’d still end up doing most of the cooking.

    I wouldn’t argue.

    Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

    Instead, I’d slice fresh fruit, prepare the plates, and squeeze oranges for fresh juice while pretending I was contributing equally to breakfast.

    Together we’d fill the kitchen with the smell of butter, coffee, and warm pancakes.

    The kind of smells that should honestly be bottled and sold.

    When breakfast is finally ready, we’d sit down and enjoy every bite.

    And somehow food always tastes better when someone else cooks it.

    Especially when that someone happens to be the best cook in the world.

    After breakfast we’d clean the kitchen together.

    One washes.

    One dries.

    Nobody escapes.

    And somewhere between putting away dishes and wiping down counters, he would ask:

    “So, where do you want to go today?”

    I would look outside at the beautiful weather and say, “How about a walk?”

    He would agree.

    Or at least pretend to.

    We’d get dressed in comfortable clothes, lace up our sneakers, and head out the door.

    But instead of taking me for a walk, he’d surprise me with a detour.

    Ice skating.

    The moment I see the rink, I would immediately remember that it has been years since I last skated.

    I would also suddenly remember every possible way a human can fall.

    Meanwhile, he would already be confidently putting on his skates.

    I would question all my life choices.

    The first few minutes would be shaky.

    There would be wobbling.

    There would be panic.

    There would be dramatic declarations that I had forgotten how to skate entirely.

    But he would take my hand and stay beside me.

    And little by little, the fear would disappear.

    Soon I’d be gliding across the ice, laughing, feeling like I had never stopped skating at all.

    The cold air, the sound of skates cutting across the ice, his hand in mine.

    Simple moments.

    Perfect moments.

    The kind that don’t seem extraordinary when you describe them, but somehow become the memories you treasure forever.

    And as we skate together on that beautiful autumn morning, I would think to myself:

    This is exactly what happiness looks like.

    Not grand adventures.

    Not luxury.

    Not perfection.

    Just a slow morning, good coffee, pancakes, laughter, and the person you love by your side.

    And honestly?

    That sounds like the perfect weekend to me.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter 8 : The Perfect Date

    A Million Dreams – Chapter 8 : The Perfect Date

    Some dreams are grand. They involve train journeys across continents, little cottages hidden in the countryside, or flights to places I cannot even pronounce properly.

    And then there are the dreams that ask for almost nothing.

    A cool evening. A comfortable pair of shoes. A person I love more than anyone else.

    That is enough.

    We arrive with the best intentions. We have both noticed that our clothes fit a little differently these days, and we agree that it is time to become healthier. So we set out for a long walk through a newly opened part of a park we have never explored before.

    We promise each other that tonight is all about exercise.

    Naturally, things do not go according to plan.

    The first thing we discover is a giant maze.

    It looks simple from the outside.

    It is not.

    We wander deeper and deeper until every path begins to look the same. We laugh at our complete lack of direction. We take wrong turns. We double back. We become absolutely convinced we know the way out, only to find ourselves exactly where we started.

    Somewhere between getting lost and pretending we are not lost, we steal a few quiet moments together.

    The kind that make time disappear.

    Eventually we find the exit, feeling far more accomplished than two people escaping a maze probably should.

    From there, we cross a bridge and continue our walk.

    Hand in hand.

    Talking about everything and nothing.

    Old memories that still make us laugh.

    People we miss.

    Dreams we have not given up on yet.

    The future we are still building one ordinary day at a time.

    And then, of course, disaster strikes.

    We discover an all day breakfast bar.

    For two people committed to healthy living, this is a serious problem.

    Especially because they happen to serve the fluffiest pancakes I have ever seen.

    We stare at the menu.

    The menu stares back.

    The pancakes win.

    Every single time.

    So we order one plate to share, along with coffee, because sharing calories somehow feels responsible. At least that is the story we tell ourselves.

    The pancakes are perfect. Light, warm, and completely worth sabotaging a fitness journey for.

    Afterward, we continue walking as if nothing happened.

    As if those pancakes never existed.

    As if we are still extremely committed to wellness.

    The path leads us toward a fountain show, where music drifts through the air and bright colors dance across the water. We stop for a while, watching the reflections shimmer and move, the lights changing with every note.

    Around us, everything feels alive.

    Beside me, the best company in the world.

    We walk a little farther.

    Maybe we stop by the grocery store before heading home.

    Maybe we pick up a few things we do not really need.

    Maybe we stretch the evening just a little longer because neither of us is in a hurry for it to end.

    And that is when I realize that my perfect walk has never really been about the destination.

    It is not about the maze.

    Or the bridge.

    Or the fountains.

    Or even the pancakes.

    It is about sharing all of those things with the right person.

    A nice walk.

    Delicious pancakes.

    And the best company in the world.

    Three simple ingredients for the perfect date night.

    And one of my million dreams.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Seven : The Coffee Farm

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Seven : The Coffee Farm

    In another life, I married the person I love most.

    A few years later, we bought a small coffee farm. Nothing extravagant. Just a modest house surrounded by rows of coffee plants, where the air always smelled faintly of earth, rain, and freshly brewed coffee.

    Coffee teaches patience. We planted young coffee trees and waited years before they were ready to produce cherries. We learned how to care for them through every season, how to recognize healthy leaves, how to harvest only the ripest red cherries, and how to dry and roast the beans until they became the coffee we would one day serve.

    Our days followed a simple rhythm.

    We woke up early, shared our morning coffee on the porch, then spent hours walking through the fields checking irrigation lines, pruning branches, and inspecting the coffee plants. The work was repetitive, but never boring. Every task felt meaningful because we were building something together.

    At the very end of the farm, right beside the road, we opened a small coffee shop.

    White walls. Wooden tables. Fresh flowers by the window.

    Every morning we baked simple treats before opening the doors. Cinnamon rolls, banana bread, butter cookies, and small cakes cooling on the counter while espresso filled the room with its familiar warmth.

    Everything we served came from our farm.

    The coffee in each cup had started as a cherry growing just a short walk away.

    People would stop by for coffee, pastries, and a quiet moment before continuing their journey. Some became regulars. Others were travelers who stumbled upon our little shop and never forgot it.

    In the evenings, after closing, we would walk back through the coffee fields together. The farm would be quiet, the café lights turned off, and the sky painted in shades of gold and pink.

    It was a simple life.

    No rush. No grand ambitions.

    Just the person I loved, a coffee farm, a small café, and the comfort of knowing that every day ended exactly where my heart wanted to be.

  • The Best Way to Explore a New City: Share It with Someone You Love

    The Best Way to Explore a New City: Share It with Someone You Love

    What’s the best way to explore a new city?

    Exploring a new city is not really about ticking landmarks off a list or following a crowded itinerary. In my opinion, the best way to experience a place is by sharing it with someone you love. The memories you create together often become more meaningful than the destination itself. Whether you are wandering through quiet streets, discovering hidden cafés, sampling local dishes you’ve never tried before, or getting lost on purpose, the right travel companion can turn ordinary moments into unforgettable ones.

    Before setting off, a little research can make the trip even more enjoyable. Take time to learn what both of you love and look for experiences that match your shared interests. Maybe that means spending an afternoon in museums, hiking through nature trails, exploring historical sites, visiting theme parks, shopping in local markets, or joining guided tours. I also love looking into the foods a destination is known for and making a list of restaurants, bakeries, and cafés that showcase local flavors. Finding activities and experiences you both genuinely enjoy helps create a journey that feels personal rather than planned for the sake of sightseeing.

    Of course, every traveler has different preferences, and that is part of the adventure. One person may be drawn to culture and history while the other loves excitement and discovery. The best trips often combine both, allowing each person to experience something they enjoy while sharing it with someone who appreciates it just as much. One of my favorite ways to connect with a destination is by taking a class or workshop that reflects something the city is famous for, whether that is a cooking class, an art lesson, a pottery workshop, or learning a local craft. It is a wonderful way to bring a piece of the destination home with you.

    At the end of the day, the most important part of exploring a new city is not the attractions, the landmarks, or even the itinerary. It is being there with someone whose company makes every experience better. A beautiful destination can leave a lasting impression, but sharing local meals, learning something new together, and discovering the city’s unique character side by side creates memories that stay with you long after the trip is over.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Six: The Train I Saved For Love

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Six: The Train I Saved For Love

    Some dreams stay quiet for years. They sit in the background of your life, waiting for the right chapter. The Eastern and Oriental Express was one of mine. I used to look at photos of the green and gold carriages and imagine myself inside them, moving through Malaysia like a slow and gentle film.

    I never knew who would be sitting next to me. Sometimes I pictured a friend. Sometimes I pictured someone I loved. Life eventually answered the question in its own soft way. One day the right person simply became part of my story. Someone who already understood my jokes, my moods, my rituals, my quiet parts, my loud ones, and I understood his Someone who felt like home long before I ever said the word, and I felt like his.

    So the dream changed shape. It became a honeymoon dream. The kind that feels earned. The kind that feels like a reward for every year of waiting.

    On the first day, we would board in Singapore. The staff would welcome us with something refreshing to drink. I can already imagine the way we would look at each other, half laughing, half emotional, because we finally made it. Dinner would be our first dinner on a moving train. The chef would send out something beautiful and we would pretend to understand the menu while secretly just enjoying the moment.

    The second day would take us to Perlis. I love the idea of waking up to the gentle rocking of the train and seeing someone there who feels familiar in the best way. We would explore art and culture together, probably take too many photos, probably buy something we do not need. The celebrations at night would feel warm and joyful. A little chaotic in a sweet way.

    Morning on the train would feel like waking up inside a moving dream. The world outside would slide by in soft green and gold. The cabin would smell faintly of coffee and warm pastries. A tray would be waiting on the bed with croissants, jam, butter and a cup of coffee still steaming. The window would be open to the scenery. We would eat slowly, half watching the trees, half watching the reflection of someone beside me. The train would hum beneath us, steady and calm, and everything would feel suspended in time. It would be the kind of morning that makes you forget the world exists beyond this cabin. The kind that makes you think this is what peace looks like.

    Day three would be the heart of the trip. Penang. Peranakan cooking. Georgetown’s murals. The smell of spices. I imagine us walking through the streets like two characters in a soft movie. He would hold my hand. I would pretend I am not emotional. Back on the train, Music. Laughter. Fireworks blooming beyond the Petronas Towers. A sky celebrating us. A sky saying finally.

    The last morning would be the softest. Breakfast in the cabin. Johor passing by like watercolor. The train rocking as if it wants to keep us a little longer. I imagine looking at them and feeling that quiet gratitude. The kind that sits in your chest and stays there. The kind that says this is the life I waited for.

    Soon after, the train would cross into Singapore. The dream would end. But the story we built together would keep going.

    And maybe that is the real dream.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Five: The Quiet Life I Haven’t Chosen Yet

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Five: The Quiet Life I Haven’t Chosen Yet

    There’s a dream I keep tucked in the quiet corners of my mind, the kind that drifts in during slow evenings or early mornings. It never arrives loudly. It just slips in, like a soft thought I didn’t invite but don’t want to let go of. In that dream, I live somewhere far, beautifully far, in a place like New Zealand. A midsized town, calm and scenic, where the roads curve gently and the mornings feel like they were designed just for me.

    I live alone there. Not in the way people fear, but in the way that feels like choosing myself instead of waiting for someone else to choose me, I’m not waiting to be picked, not hoping to be someone’s priority, not shrinking to fit into someone else’s life. In this dream, I am enough for my own company. I am the person I come home to. I am the one I choose.

    The town is quiet, almost protective. It feels like a place built for healing, the kind of healing that doesn’t demand explanations or apologies. A place where I can leave the noise of the world behind, the expectations, the disappointments, the ache of waiting for doors that never opened. Here, I build a life with my own hands.

    I run the sweetest little coffee shop–deli–bakery you can imagine. The ground floor smells like fresh bread and roasted beans, and upstairs is my loft, my small, warm world, where I keep my books, my blankets, my mismatched mugs, and the cinnamon I sometimes forget to restock. The loft is messy in the charming way, lived‑in without apology, a space shaped entirely by me.

    I wake up before sunrise, stepping into the soft blue of dawn. I start the coffee machines, listening to their familiar hum, the kind of sound that becomes a companion over time. Then I bake the dough I shaped the night before, watching it rise in the warm glow of the oven. Those early hours feel magical, quiet, steady, full of small rituals that remind me I can create beauty without anyone else standing beside me.

    By 6:30 or seven, I open the doors for the morning crowd. The familiar faces, the sleepy smiles, the regulars who communicate entirely through eyebrow raises until their first cup of coffee. They become part of my rhythm, part of the heartbeat of my days. I learn their orders, their moods, their silence. They learn mine. And yet, I remain whole on my own, connected, but not dependent.

    I take my lunch break outside, always. I sit with whatever new sandwich I invented that week, some brilliant, some questionable, and I eat slowly, watching the town move around me. I close before sunset because in this dream, I respect the sun more than the clock. I walk through the town as the sky melts into gold, watching the light stretch across the road like it’s blessing everything it touches.

    At night, I head back to my loft. The fireplace crackles softly, warming the room in that way only real fire can. I drink something hot, talk to myself about nothing and everything, and eventually drift to sleep with a book half‑open beside me. The world feels small, but not in a limiting way, small like a held breath, small like a secret, small like peace.

    And the next day, I do it all again. The same routine, the same joy, the same simple life that somehow feels extraordinary. A life built from small rituals, quiet work, and gentle love for my own company. A life where choosing myself isn’t a consolation prize, it’s the beginning of healing. A life that makes me believe that dreams don’t have to be loud to be beautiful.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Four: Grow As We Go

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Four: Grow As We Go

    Sometimes I imagine an alternative life for myself, one that feels both impossible and completely within reach. A life on a farm, not the distant, one‑hour‑away farms we have here in Kuwait, but a dream version only fifteen minutes from the city. In that dream, the land is wide and generous, stretching out like a soft promise. There’s a main house with a swimming pool to survive the summer heat, and a few small huts scattered around for family who want to stay over. It’s a place built for slow mornings, warm evenings, and a kind of peace that feels like it belongs to another world.

    In this dream life, we grow everything ourselves. Fruits, vegetables, citruses glowing in the greenhouse, and a lake filled with fish that shimmer under the sun. Ducks glide across the water like tiny boats, and somewhere far from the main house, for allergy reasons, sits a quiet beehive humming with life. We’d have goats, three cows, sheep, and chickens, each one part of the rhythm of the farm. And of course, the tenants who never pay rent: the cats. They’d wander around like tiny guardians, keeping the place clean of pests and pretending they own the land. A short‑haired German Shepherd would watch over everything, loyal and calm.

    The heart of the home would be the outdoor kitchen. When the weather turns gentle, we’d cook outside, letting the breeze carry the smell of spices and fresh herbs. I imagine a wood‑burning oven built with love, where I bake warm breads and sweet treats for my family. The kids would run freely across the property, stopping to pick fruits and vegetables straight from the trees and soil, their tiny hands helping us prepare meals that taste like sunshine and effort. They’d grow up knowing the magic of real food, the feel of earth, and the joy of being part of the process.

    And in the quiet moments, when the sun begins to set and the sky softens, my husband and I would walk together around the farm. Just the two of us, moving slowly through the life we built with our hands and our hearts. A simple, quiet life. A life full of love, nature, and the kind of calm that feels like a blessing. A lovely place to raise a family and a dream I carry gently, knowing that even if it never becomes real, it will always live beautifully in my imagination.

    Always…

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Three: Old and wrinkly

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Three: Old and wrinkly

    I’ve been thinking about kids since I was barely old enough to understand what wanting something for the future even meant. Back then, the idea was simple: one child, maybe two, three if life pushed me into a corner. I liked the thought of a small family I could hold close, where no one felt lost in the noise. It felt like the responsible choice, the calm choice. And honestly, it felt like the only version of motherhood I could imagine without overwhelming myself.

    Then someone told me that five is the perfect number. I remember brushing it off, but the sentence stayed with me longer than it should have. It didn’t demand anything, it just lingered, warming a part of me I didn’t know was cold. And then, I saw a video of a couple with nineteen kids living on a farmhouse that looked like it had its own weather. Their children are grown now, scattered into their own lives, some with five kids, one with six on the way. More than forty grandkids filling the place with the kind of noise that doesn’t feel chaotic, just alive. Watching them gather, each person carrying a dish, kids running everywhere, stories being passed around like bread… I felt something shift in me. A small ache, but a warm one.

    I don’t want nineteen. I don’t even want to pretend I could survive nineteen. But if I’m being honest, really honest, I don’t think I’d want fewer than five. Something about that video cracked open a door I didn’t know existed. I keep picturing myself old and wrinkly, holding the hand of the man I love, surrounded by our kids and their kids, eating good food, laughing at stories we’ve told so many times they barely belong to us anymore. A full table, a loud house, a life that spills over its edges. That’s the dream I didn’t know I had, and now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.

    “In my dreams you’re mine, in reality, you’re my dream” – Nizar Qabbani.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Two: The Road That Carried Us Home

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Two: The Road That Carried Us Home

    Late January in Kuwait feels like a quiet beginning. The air is cool, the sky pale and gentle. We pack the RV with tiny backpacks, our perfect playlist the one we spent a whole month curating and just enough essentials to feel free. He makes the coffee; I open the map.
    We walk through the early morning streets before leaving, taking photos together, laughing at how excited we look. It feels like the start of a story we’ll tell for years.

    This trip began with a simple purpose to taste the best coffee shops and bakeries across the GCC, fifteen days to follow the scent of fresh bread and warm coffee from one country to the next. It felt like a sweet excuse to escape, to wander, to breathe.

    Crossing into Saudi Arabia, the air grew colder, the desert stretching wide and golden. The road followed the Arabian Gulf, quiet and calm beside us.
    We stopped at a tiny bakery on the way warm bread, a little sweetness, and the soft hum of the desert wind.
    The day felt slow and gentle, like the world was giving us time.

    Bahrain greets us with soft sea air and warm light. We walk through Manama Souq, exploring pearl shops that shimmer like tiny constellations.
    He surprises me with the loveliest tiny pearl earrings delicate, perfect. I put them on immediately, knowing I’ll never take them off.
    We spend the evening near the water, taking photos, sharing dessert, making memories that feel like warm light.

    Back through Saudi, the Gulf stayed close to us, shimmering quietly.
    Qatar felt warm and bright, in Doha, Souq Waqif wraps us in color and rhythm. At the Museum of Islamic Art, we walk slowly, hand in hand, taking photos in the soft light.
    A quiet café by the water becomes our evening coffee, dessert, and the city glowing across the sea.

    The UAE feels like a celebration. In Abu Dhabi, we wander through Louvre Abu Dhabi, letting the filtered light paint patterns on our faces. We spend a day at Warner Bros. World, laughing until our cheeks ache.
    In Dubai, we walk through Dubai Mall, doing a little shopping, taking photos in pretty corners, and sharing coffee as the world rushes around us.

    Crossing back through Saudi and into Oman, the weather cooled and the mountains rose around us like old guardians. We explored old Forts, wander through the souq, and stop by seaside cafés for Omani halwa and strong Omani coffee.
    We walk through old streets, taking photos, collecting tiny moments that feel like treasures.

    We take the western road along the Red Sea, passing Jeddah Corniche. The water glows turquoise under the sun.
    Small museums, bakeries, and quiet cafés become gentle pauses along the way.
    The nights were quiet, we park near the shore, just us, the lantern, the stars, and the sound of the waves tapping the rocks like they were telling us secrets.

    Driving north toward Kuwait feels like returning from a dream. The RV carries everything, our laughter, our photos, our tiny backpacks, the pearl earrings, the scent of coffee, and the warmth of every place we loved.
    By the time we reach home, the road feels like a friend we’ll always return to, a story stitched into our hearts, a million dreams lived in fifteen days.