Author: Saba Javed
The Thrift Shop That Started It All I remember the October chill in 2007, stepping into a cramped Brooklyn thrift shop and finding my first pair of skinny girl jeans. Faded black, they clung like a whispered promise of who I could be bold, maybe a little reckless. In front of a smudged mirror, I tugged at the hems, feeling the pinch at my ankles, and thought, “This is me, unhidden.” That winter in college, those jeans trailed me through late-night diners and nervous first dates, stretching just enough to hold my changing self. Now, in 2025, as whispers of…
The Mirror on That Rainy Afternoon Wearing Makeup: I remember the first time I truly saw my face without makeup, not a quick glance before rushing out but in the soft, gray light of a rainy afternoon, sprawled on my bathroom floor after a long college night. That winter, everything felt heavy the parties, the expectations, the foundation I’d slather on like armor. My roommate, fresh off a breakup, was wiping off smudged mascara, laughing through tears, saying, “We’re ghosts of ourselves.” Staring at my bare reflection, no concealer hiding my freckles, no blush faking a glow, I felt exposed…
The Mirror’s Quiet Betrayal I remember that fall in my college dorm, the mirror in that cramped bathroom showing me something I didn’t want to see. It was sophomore year, leaves golden outside in that Midwest town where everything felt too big yet too small. I’d just left a party, laughter still ringing in my ears, where everyone’s hair seemed to bounce waves catching light, ponytails swinging with confidence. Mine? Flat against my scalp, like a secret I couldn’t hide. Fine hair care, they called it, but it felt like thin flat hair stole my spark, strands slipping through my…
A White Dress That Felt Like Freedom I remember slipping into my first all white outfit on a humid Brooklyn afternoon, the kind where the air clings like a memory you can’t shake. I was in my early twenties, crashing on a friend’s couch, piecing together freelance gigs and my own identity. The thrift-store white linen dress I found was nothing special just a loose shift that whispered against my skin. Paired with scuffed white sneakers and a silver chain catching the sun, I stood in front of a cracked mirror and thought, “This is what clean feels like.” Not…
A Monsoon Memory in Mumbai I remember that rainy July afternoon in Mumbai, 2024, sitting in a tiny cafe, the kind where the monsoon drums on the tin roof and your chai goes cold too fast. Scrolling through my phone, I stumbled on a photo of Anant Ambani and Radhika Merchant, laughing outside a glittering pre-wedding event, her hand tucked in his. My heart caught. “That’s the ambani wedding,” I thought, not with envy but with a quiet ache for something so grand, so alive. The anant radhika wedding felt like a dream you don’t want to wake from, and…
The Rainy Day That Started It All Coconut oil benefits: I remember that rainy afternoon, maybe 2018, when I first opened a jar of virgin coconut oil in my cramped apartment kitchen. The world outside was a soft gray blur, just the hum of rain and my own restless thoughts. I’d been up late, scrolling forums about what is coconut oil good for stories of lost weight with coconut oil, smoother skin, calmer stomachs. I was in a slump, carrying extra weight that felt like a quiet burden, my mornings heavy with a knotted gut. Maybe that’s why I reached…
The Mirror That Held My Doubts I remember that rainy afternoon in my cramped college apartment, the sky heavy and gray, pressing down like a weight on my chest. I stood before the fogged-up mirror, towel tight around my head, staring at the thinning patches along my temples. It wasn’t the dramatic hair loss of movie scenes no clutching my scalp in panic but a quiet erosion, strands slipping away after late-night study sessions, part-time job stress, and a breakup that left me picking at split ends like they held secrets. My hair, once a thick curtain I’d hide behind,…
A Memory in the Attic I remember that summer after my cousin’s wedding, the attic air thick with dust and light filtering through lace curtains. Her gown, all silk and shimmering beads, lay in its box like a captured star. She’d just had her first baby, her life shifting into something louder, messier. “What do I do with it now?” she murmured, tracing the hem, and I felt that ache joy tangled with letting go. That’s when she mentioned bridal consignment shops near me, those quiet places where wedding dresses find new stories, and it stayed with me through my…
The Day I Met a Black Olive I remember the first time I truly tasted a Black olives nutrition, not just tossed one back as a pizza topping, but let its salty, earthy depth settle on my tongue. It was a rainy afternoon in my cramped Seattle apartment, back when I was twenty-something, drowning in late nights and too little sunlight. I’d grabbed a jar of black olives on a whim from the Mediterranean market down the street the one with the crooked sign and an owner humming folk tunes over wheels of feta. Sitting at my wobbly kitchen table,…
The Rainy Afternoon That Started It All I still remember that rainy afternoon in the fall of 2012, the kind where the sky hangs low and gray over Brooklyn, turning the city into a watercolor blur. I’d just splurged on these sleek black leather loafers from a cramped vintage shop, the air thick with the smell of old leather and dust. They were my first “adult” shoes, a half-off steal because the owner said they needed a new home. But back in my tiny apartment, under the flicker of a single bulb, they pinched my feet like they were holding…