Lost A

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  • Keep Walking Through the Fire

    Keep Walking Through the Fire

    There’s a moment when you realize you’ve been walking through the same storm for too long not waiting anymore, but surviving. You stop counting the days, stop asking when it will end. You just keep moving, because stopping feels heavier than the pain itself.

    People say, “If you’re going through hell, keep going. Why would you stop in hell?”
    And maybe that’s the quiet truth of endurance you don’t walk because you’re brave, you walk because you’ve learned that standing still burns worse.

    Hell isn’t always flames.
    Sometimes it’s silence.
    Sometimes it’s the weight of promises that never came true.
    Sometimes it’s the echo of your own strength when no one else shows up.

    You keep going through the fire because you’ve already been scorched by disappointment. You’ve already carried too much. You’ve already learned that hope isn’t soft, it’s stubborn. It’s the part of you that refuses to die even when everything else feels tired.

    And somewhere along the road, the air changes.
    The light shifts.
    The pain doesn’t vanish, but it loses its power.
    You realize you’ve been walking toward something not away from it.

    Hell was never meant to be home.
    It was meant to be a passage.
    A test.
    A tunnel that teaches you how to keep your own flame alive.

    So keep going not because you owe anyone strength, but because you owe yourself the chance to see what waits beyond the smoke.
    Maybe it’s peace.
    Maybe it’s a dream finally taking shape.
    Maybe it’s just the quiet relief of knowing you made it through.

  • My Confession

    My Confession

    I have a confession: I’m addicted to collecting cups and mugs. All shapes, all sizes, all colors, from all places. A tiny ceramic cup from a market, a heavy mug from a café, a pastel one that simply looked too pretty to leave behind. I don’t buy them because I need them, I buy them because they feel like little pieces of life I can hold. Each one carries a story, a moment, a mood. My shelves are full, my kitchen is full, and still… I find myself reaching for another. It’s a harmless addiction, but a real one a soft obsession with vessels that feel like memories.

    Collecting is a quiet human instinct. We gather things even when we already have many versions of them, even when they’re expensive, even when they don’t make sense financially. We collect because it brings joy, a spark, a thrill, a sense of identity. Collections make us feel anchored. They turn objects into comfort, into ritual, into meaning. A collection is a way of saying: this is who I am, this is what I love, this is what I choose to keep close. Whether it’s cups, stamps, perfumes, books, or tiny trinkets, collecting is a form of storytelling. It’s a way of building a little world that feels safe and ours.

    Sometimes I think collecting is a way of holding on to time. Each cup feels like a pause, a memory caught mid‑sip. When I look at them lined up mismatched, colorful, imperfect I see chapters of my life stacked quietly together. The thrill of finding a new one never fades; it feels like discovering a new piece of myself. Maybe that’s why we collect not to own more, but to remember more. To keep proof that joy can be found in small, ordinary things, again and again.

  • The Fear of the Unknown

    The Fear of the Unknown

    There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from waiting not the simple kind, but the heavy, aching kind that settles in your chest when you’ve been hoping for something for so long that even hope starts to feel like a burden.

    It’s the fear of the unknown.
    The fear of what if it never happens.
    The fear of what if it happens again the way it did before with disappointment, with broken promises, with people who say one thing and do another.

    You start to lose trust in words.
    In timelines.
    In “soon” and “I promise” and “don’t worry.”

    Because you’ve been tricked before.
    You’ve been let down before.
    And your mind, tired of being optimistic, begins wandering into darker corners the ones where you replay every moment someone failed you, every time you carried more than you should, every time you were the strong one because everyone else leaned on you.

    Being relied on sounds noble until it becomes a weight.
    Until you’re the one holding everything together while quietly falling apart.
    Until you’re tired of being the dependable one, the responsible one, the one who shows up even when she’s running on empty.

    And in the quiet moments the ones late at night, or early in the morning before the world wakes you wonder if it will ever get better.
    If your dreams will ever stop being dreams and become something real.
    If life will give you even a small piece of what you’ve been waiting for.

    You don’t want everything.
    Just something.
    A sign.
    A shift.
    A moment that tells you you’re not foolish for hoping.

    But here’s the truth buried beneath all the exhaustion:
    The fact that you’re still hoping even after everything says something about you.
    It says you haven’t given up on yourself.
    It says your heart, despite the bruises, still believes in the possibility of better days.
    It says your dreams matter enough to keep alive, even when the world feels heavy.

    Maybe the unknown is frightening because it holds both the worst and the best.
    And maybe just maybe part of your story is learning to walk toward it anyway.

    Not because you trust people.
    Not because promises have been kept.
    But because somewhere inside you, there’s a quiet, stubborn part that still believes your life can shift.
    That something good can happen.
    That even if it doesn’t come all at once, a small piece of your dream might find its way to you.

    And when it does, you’ll know it was worth surviving the dark places to reach the light.

  • Lonely day

    Lonely day

    There are days when the world feels unbearably full of voices overlapping, conversations rising and falling like waves yet somehow you feel untouched by all of it. You sit among people you know, people who care, people who laugh easily, and still there’s a quiet distance inside you that no one seems to cross. It’s strange how loneliness can bloom in the middle of a crowded room, how it can wrap itself around your heart even as someone sits right beside you.

    Sometimes you catch yourself drifting, watching the way sunlight falls across a table or how someone gestures while they speak, and you realize you’re not really with them. You’re somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter. It’s not that you don’t love them or that they’ve done anything wrong it’s just that your inner world feels dimmer than the one around you. You feel like a silhouette against a warm sunset: present, visible, but somehow unreachable.

    Loneliness like this isn’t loud. It doesn’t cry or demand attention. It settles softly, like dust on a windowsill, gathering in the corners of your thoughts. You can be surrounded by warmth and still feel cold inside. You can be held in conversation and still feel unheard. You can be part of a moment and still feel apart from it.

    Some days are simply lonely, even when every seat around you is full. A song keeps coming to mind It’s by system of a down called lonely day.

    Such a lonely day, and it’s mine
    The most loneliest day of my life
    Such a lonely day should be banned
    It’s a day that I can’t stand

    The most loneliest day of my life
    The most loneliest day of my life

    Such a lonely day shouldn’t exist
    It’s a day that I’ll never miss
    Such a lonely day, and it’s mine
    The most loneliest day of my life

  • The Quiet Collapse

    The Quiet Collapse

    There are stretches of life that feel like walking through a dim hallway with no doors just one long path where the weight on your shoulders keeps growing, quietly, insistently.

    Work becomes a place where everything is urgent. Every task is time‑sensitive. Every hour feels like it’s already late. You carry so much that your body forgets what lightness feels like. Then night comes, not as rest, but as another responsibility classes, readings, preparing. You move through your evenings like someone trying to outrun the clock. Sleep becomes a negotiation. Eating becomes something you squeeze into the margins. Even showering feels like a luxury you have to earn.

    And beneath all of this, grief hums. Losing your best friend doesn’t happen once it happens every day, in small ways. In the silence. In the moments you reach for someone who isn’t there. It feels like half of your soul slipped out of your life, leaving you to navigate everything with a missing piece.

    Then your body begins to falter. The exhaustion becomes physical. The aches become louder. You start to wonder how much more weight a single person can carry before something gives.

    And still you keep going.

    Not loudly. Not heroically. Just steadily, in the quiet way people do when life doesn’t give them a choice. You move through the heaviness with a kind of fragile strength, the kind that doesn’t look impressive from the outside but is made of pure endurance.

    Some seasons don’t just get worse they get heavier. But even in the heaviness, even in the ache, even in the exhaustion that feels like it’s settling into your bones, you are still here. Still trying. Still holding on to the hope that one day, the weight will lift, even a little.

    Just keep swimming…

  • 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.