Lost A

Tag: memories

  • To the one who will never read this – The sunset is beautiful, isn’t it?

    To the one who will never read this – The sunset is beautiful, isn’t it?

    There are moments in life when love does not arrive with fireworks or the rush of youth. It comes quietly, almost shy, as if it knows you have lived enough to understand its weight. That is how this story begins. Not with first love, not with innocence, but with two people who met at a time when the heart has already known its share of beginnings and endings.

    I never believed I was his first love. I never needed to be. By the time we met, we were both old enough to know that hearts have histories. People come and go. Some stay for a season. Some leave a mark. Some teach us what we want. Others teach us what we never want again. So I never asked to be the first chapter in his story. I only hoped to be the chapter he chose with a steady hand and a clear mind.

    There was something beautiful about meeting him at this stage of life. Love was no longer a passing impulse. It was no longer a wild decision made in the heat of youth. It was something deliberate. Something chosen. Something held with care. I wanted to be the one he picked with a mature heart. The one he stayed for. The one he saw as a place to rest.

    What he never knew is that he was my first in a different way. Not the first man I ever cared for, but the first man I loved with complete honesty. The first relationship where I walked in without pretending to be someone else. The first time I let myself be seen without fear. He came to me with a heart that had known love before. I came to him with a heart that learned what love truly meant because of him.

    And then life did what life often does. It reminded me that love, even when it feels deep and steady, is still a choice. He chose a different path. Not because I was unworthy, not because our moments were imagined, but because his heart was moving in a direction that cannot include me. There is a quiet ache in realizing that you were ready to stay while someone else was already halfway out the door.

    I used to think love was proven by being chosen. Now I understand that love is also proven by how you walk away when you are not. I loved him with sincerity. I showed up with truth. I gave what I had. And when he stepped back, I learned to step forward alone.

    Some endings are not failures. Some endings are simply the point where your story continues without the person you once hoped would stay. He did not choose me, but I am still choosing myself. I am choosing healing. I am choosing peace. I am choosing a future that does not depend on someone else staying.

    Love does not always end with two people together. Sometimes it ends with one person growing. And that is still a kind of love story.

  • What Never Was Mine

    What Never Was Mine

    Some people do not simply enter our lives. They settle quietly into our thoughts, our routines, and the spaces between ordinary moments. Before we realize it, they become part of our inner world, and their presence feels as natural as breathing. Sometimes I wonder why fate allows us to meet someone who seems to embody everything we ever hoped for, only to remind us that they are not meant to be ours.

    There is a particular ache in caring for someone you cannot have. You find yourself caught between wanting to get closer and knowing you should step away. You call it friendship, admiration, or anything else that feels safer than the truth, but the feeling remains unchanged beneath every name you give it.

    I searched for reasons to let go. I wanted to find flaws, differences, anything that could loosen the grip this person had on my heart. Yet every attempt only revealed how deeply I had already fallen. What frightened me was not the feeling itself, but realizing how much space it had quietly claimed within me.

    And so, whenever my heart wanders into impossible dreams, reality gently brings me back. I take a breath and remind myself of the truth I am learning to accept: he is not mine. Perhaps some people are not meant to stay in our future. Perhaps they are meant to live only in our memories, leaving behind a version of us that will never be quite the same again.

  • Dear diary

    Dear diary

    I spent the evening thinking about what it would feel like to see you again. Not the first meeting. Not the beginning. Something quieter. Something heavier. A return.

    I tried to imagine the moment our eyes meet again. I wondered if I would still feel that familiar pull. The one that used to make me forget everything around me. I think it would come back instantly. Some feelings do not fade. They only wait.

    I pictured myself standing close to you. Close enough to touch your face the way I used to. Close enough to study your eyes without rushing. I wonder if I would manage to stay steady or if the old nervousness would rise again. The kind that comes when something matters more than it should.

    There is a softness in the idea of returning to you. A quiet takeover that once settled in my heart and never really left. It was never loud. It was never dramatic. It simply filled every space and stayed there.

    Your eyes are the first thing I think of. I imagine them in front of me again. Familiar yet overwhelming. I remember how much I loved looking into them long before distance separated us. That memory still carries a sweetness that hurts a little. A longing that survived the silence.

    Sometimes I imagine kissing your eyes again. Not out of romance. Out of gratitude. As if thanking them for the way they once made me feel alive. As if thanking them for the way they still return to me in thought even after all this time.

    I think I am still marked by you. As if something in me was shaped by your presence and never reshaped after you left. There is no cure for it and I do not want one. The longing always knew where it belonged. It knew its way back to you even after the distance.

    Writing this feels like opening a door I’m trying to keep closed. Maybe seeing you again would not be dramatic. Maybe it would be a small miracle. A quiet moment where everything I once felt stands in front of me again, familiar and close enough to touch.

  • I’ve Lied

    I’ve Lied

    Some days ago, someone asked me what songs I’ve been listening to lately.
    I don’t know why I didn’t tell the truth.
    Maybe I wanted to seem like I’d moved on.
    Maybe I wanted to look stronger than I felt.
    Maybe I didn’t want anyone to hear the softness I still carry.

    So I said something casual, something light, something that didn’t matter.
    But the truth stayed quiet inside me.

    Because the songs I’ve actually been listening to aren’t the kind you share when you’re trying to look healed. They’re the kind you keep to yourself, the ones that touch the parts of you you pretend are gone.

    Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.
    I guess i’m in love by Clinton Kane.
    Please notice by Christian Leave.
    A Drop in the Ocean by Ron Pope.
    Follow Me by Uncle Kracker.
    Someone to You by BANNERS.

    They’re not all masterpieces.
    They’re not all impressive.
    But each one has a line, a moment, a feeling that reached me in a way I didn’t want to admit.

    Maybe that’s why I didn’t say them out loud.
    Because these songs reveal a version of me I’ve been trying to tuck away, the girl who still feels deeply, who still remembers, who still hopes, who still aches a little. The girl who isn’t as “strong” as she pretends to be.

    But strength isn’t always loud.
    Sometimes it’s just honesty.
    And tonight, this is mine.

    These are the songs.
    This is the truth.
    And maybe that’s enough.

  • The Place I Still Carry With Me

    The Place I Still Carry With Me

    There was a time when work felt like a small dream I was quietly living. I was moved to a new job with the promise of a better position, and the place I arrived to looked forgotten by the world. Dust on every surface, furniture left in strange corners, bugs claiming the silence. Somehow, I didn’t mind. I cleaned everything, brought in new supplies, arranged the space until it felt alive again. It became a real workplace because I made it one. It was peaceful. It was mine. I used to walk in every morning with a soft kind of hope, the kind that makes you feel like you are building something good.

    For a while, I worked alone, and it was a comforting kind of solitude. My tiny office had a view of a small garden, and the quiet felt like a friend. I believed I was finally stepping into a gentle chapter of my life. Then everything shifted. My boss moved on to a higher position, and the new one who replaced him didn’t see me the same way. The promise I had been holding onto disappeared. My work was brushed aside. The effort I had poured into that place suddenly meant nothing.

    New colleagues arrived, and for a while, it felt like stepping into a dream. I wasn’t alone anymore. The days were lighter, filled with laughter and shared coffee breaks. I saw the world through soft pink lenses and believed people were kind. One of them became my closest friend, someone I trusted, someone who made the long hours feel shorter. But time has a way of showing what words can hide. Slowly, reality unfolded. One by one, their masks slipped. Some turned out to be unkind. Some turned out to be cruel. Some simply didn’t care. And that friend who once felt like family drifted away too, leaving behind a silence heavier than anger. The hardest part wasn’t their behavior. It was realizing that what I had built, the warmth and the belonging, no longer belonged to me.

    Leaving broke my heart. Staying broke it too. Every time I pass by that building now, something tightens in my chest. It feels like someone is pressing the air out of my lungs. I loved that place. I loved the quiet. I loved the hope that lived inside me back then. I loved the feeling that I was creating something bright.

    But I had to walk away.

    Now I am in a new job with another promise of another position, and I no longer believe promises. The days are hectic. The work never stops. I drink too much coffee just to keep up, and my hands shake more than they should. Sometimes I get dizzy. Sometimes I wonder how long a person can run before they fall. But this is the life I have now.

    Still, a small part of me wonders. What if the old boss never left. What if the colleagues never came. What if the quiet stayed quiet. I think I would have been happy. I think that little office with its tiny garden would have kept me safe.

    I miss that place. I miss the calm. I miss the short drive from home. I miss the version of myself who believed she was building something beautiful. Some places stay with us even after we leave them. They sit quietly inside us, like a soft ache that never fully fades.

  • The People You Don’t Forget

    The People You Don’t Forget

    Tonight I’m thinking about the people life forces you to remember. Not because you want to, but because forgetting them would mean forgetting the parts of yourself that broke… and the parts that survived.

    I keep circling back to this truth: you never forget the ones who helped you. The ones who noticed the crack in your voice before you even admitted something was wrong. The ones who sat with you in silence because they didn’t know what to say, but they refused to leave. Their kindness wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was steady. And steady feels like a miracle when everything else is falling apart.

    And then there are the ones who left. God, that still stings. I didn’t expect their absence to hurt the way it did. It wasn’t just that they weren’t there, it was the realization that they could have been. They chose not to be. I think that’s what I’m still grieving: the choice. The quiet decision to step away when I needed someone to stay. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully make peace with that.

    But the hardest ones to write about, even here, even privately, are the ones who put you in difficult times. The ones who caused the mess you had to clean up. The ones who broke things inside you that you didn’t know were fragile. They taught me lessons I never asked for. They forced me to grow in ways I didn’t want to. And even now, even after healing, their shadows still show up in certain memories, certain fears, certain boundaries I didn’t used to have.

    It’s strange how all three types stay with you.

    The helpers soften you.
    The abandoners sharpen you.
    The ones who hurt you harden you, but they also teach you how to protect yourself.

    I guess that’s why I’m writing this tonight. Because remembering them feels like remembering the map of how I became who I am. Every person carved something into me, a wound, a warning, a strength.

    And maybe I don’t want to forget any of it.
    Maybe this is how I learn who deserves to stay in my life… and who only belonged to the chapter that nearly broke me.

  • A blast from the past

    A blast from the past

    I think I time traveled to the 90s last night. I’m not exaggerating, I genuinely stepped into a tiny shopping center that looked like it had been sealed shut sometime around 1996 and only reopened yesterday just for me. The moment I walked in, I felt that familiar 90s glow: the slightly faded signs, the old‑school decorations, the shelves arranged in that charming “we tried our best” style every shop used to have.

    And then came the real nostalgia punch, a little shop selling petit four, Arabic sweets, and “Botha”Arabic ice cream. The kind of place that instantly makes you feel like a kid again, even before you taste anything. I walked in and it was like my childhood had been laid out neatly on trays. I tried the petit four first, and it was exactly the kind of buttery, delicate sweetness that used to make every family gathering feel magical. One bite and I was basically six years old again, standing next to a table full of desserts I wasn’t supposed to touch yet.

    I didn’t try the Arabic ice cream this time, I’m saving that for my next visit, because some joys deserve their own dedicated moment. But I did buy a box of sweets to take home, because happiness is always better when it comes in a small box tied with nostalgia.

    Walking out, I felt ridiculously happy. Like I had discovered a tiny portal to the past hidden inside a regular shopping center. A place where everything is simple, familiar, and wrapped in the soft glow of childhood memories.

    Last night wasn’t just a visit. It was a sweet little reunion with the 90s, and I’m already planning my next trip back.

  • Mishomisho Part Two: The Day She Became a Princess

    Mishomisho Part Two: The Day She Became a Princess

    Ever since my niece watched The Little Mermaid, something shifted in her tiny world. She’s been twirling around the house, trying singing Ariel’s songs with full confidence, as if she’s part of the movie. And when she looks at me and says “mishomisho,” I know exactly what she means now, princess. It’s her own little word for everything magical and royal.

    So we decided to make her princess dreams a little more real. We went to the mall, and our first stop was the small petting zoo inside. She loved looking at the animals, but touching them was a big no. She kept her hands tucked close to her body, watching them with wide eyes, half curious, half cautious. Still, she enjoyed every minute of it, as long as nobody asked her to pet anything.

    Then came the highlight of the day: the Disney shop. The moment we stepped inside, her eyes lit up. Rows of glittering dresses, tiny shoes, and sparkly accessories, it was like walking straight into her imagination. She chose two costumes: the shimmering turquoise Little Mermaid outfit and the soft pink‑lavender Rapunzel gown.

    In the fitting room, she tried them on one by one. When she saw herself in the mirror, she whispered “mishomisho” with this proud little smile, like she finally saw the princess she’s been pretending to be. She twirled, admired herself, and I swear the whole room felt brighter.

    After that, we went for lunch and dessert, because every princess outing needs something sweet. She sat there in her tiny dress, eating ice cream like it was part of the royal routine.

    When we got home, she ran straight to her mother to show off her new dresses. Her mom’s reaction was pure joy, and the way my niece stood there waiting for approval was the cutest thing. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, full of laughter, tiny memories, and the soft magic of childhood.

  • Flavors

    Flavors

    Sometimes the same bite of food carries a different soul depending on where you meet it. Salted caramel ice cream, for example, can taste bold and golden on one day, and strangely muted on another, as if the sweetness is responding to the air around you. It’s never just flavor. It’s the moment, the lighting, the quiet or the noise, the way your heart is sitting inside your chest. Even familiar ice cream becomes a new experience when your mood shifts, tasting the way you feel.

    And then there’s the magic of who you’re eating with. Salted caramel eaten alone can feel indulgent but simple, a small comfort. But the same spoonful shared with someone you love becomes softer, sweeter, almost warmer. It turns into a tiny celebration, a conversation, a memory. It’s almost funny how a bite can taste different just because someone is sitting beside you, laughing, listening, or simply being there.

    That’s why taste is never just taste. A scoop of salted caramel can be a hug, a reminder, a quiet companion, or a bridge between two people. Food grows with us, shifts with us, and becomes part of the story we’re living, one bite, one moment, one shared spoon at a time.

  • 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.