Lost A

Tag: memories

  • 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.

  • 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.