Author: Saba Javed

A Rainy Spring Memory I remember that rainy spring in college, huddled in my cramped dorm room, the kind where a twin size bedroom felt like a luxury. My best friend and I shared a single twin bed, laughing about how we’d upgrade to a proper guest room one day, maybe with two twin beds for late-night chats. Life scatters those moments, but when I got my first apartment, that memory lingered. I wanted a twin bed guest room that felt warm, not squeezed a space where friends could crash and feel at home. That’s when I started dreaming up…

A Rainy Afternoon Memory It was a gray, rainy afternoon in the spring of my junior year, the kind of day that makes you want to curl up with a blanket and overthink everything. I was sprawled on my dorm bed, half-listening to the rain tap the window, when Sarah my best friend since freshman orientation called me. Her voice was all excitement and nerves, and she blurted out, “Will you officiate our wedding?” My heart skipped. Me? How to officiate a wedding? I wasn’t a pastor or some polished professional; I was just the girl who’d stayed up late…

A Few Strands in the Mirror I remember that rainy afternoon in my early twenties, standing in front of a steamed-up bathroom mirror after a long, hot shower. My dark hair was dripping, tangled, and there they were two silver strands glinting like tiny sparks under the dim light. Young women with gray hair? The thought hit me like a whisper I wasn’t ready to hear. I tugged at one, half-expecting it to be a trick of the light, maybe stress from college finals or a genetic gift from my mom’s side. Part of me wanted to pluck it out,…

A Memory That Sparked It All It was a sticky Miami summer, the kind where the air clings like a second skin, and I was 18, scrolling Instagram in my dim apartment. My phone glowed, casting shadows, when Alex Gonzalez FXAlexG popped up, a young guy turning pocket change into fortunes through forex. His post, a screenshot of a trade that could’ve paid my rent, hit like a lightning bolt. “From Dunkin’ Donuts to this,” he wrote. I froze, coffee cold on my nightstand, thinking, What if I could rewrite my story too? That fleeting moment, humid and electric, hooked…

A Memory That Lingers It was a muggy summer night in 2013, my dorm room in London barely lit by a flickering desk lamp. I was 22, sipping lukewarm tea, scrolling through news on a laptop that wheezed with every click. A headline caught my eye: Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani, the new Emir of Qatar, had taken the throne at 33, handed power by his father in a quiet, televised moment. I paused, the weight of that shift sinking in. Who was this young leader, stepping into a world of oil wealth and global scrutiny? That night, the…

A Moment in the Desert Heat It was a blistering afternoon in Dubai, 2018, the kind where the sun feels like it’s pressing down, turning the city into a mirage of glass and ambition. I was a freelancer, chasing stories along Sheikh Zayed Road, my notebook already damp from the humidity. At a small café, an expat banker shared a hushed secret over bitter karak tea, sliding his phone to show a photo of the Dubai First Royale Mastercard black, gold-edged, with a diamond glinting like a star. He smirked, saying it was for a world we’d never touch. That…

A Rainy Night’s Revelation I remember that rainy evening in the spring of 2011, my dorm room a mess of textbooks and half-empty coffee cups. I was a college sophomore, the world feeling both too vast and too tight, when I flicked on the news to drown out the drizzle. There was Steve Jobs, his voice thinner than I’d imagined, announcing he was stepping down from Apple. The anchor’s words about his health hit like a quiet ache. When did Steve Jobs die? October 5, 2011, would come soon after, but that night, I sat cross-legged on my bed, sensing…

A Wrong Turn That Lingered It was a sticky summer evening in 2010, my old Honda rattling through Dallas after college graduation. The sky glowed with those lazy Texas oranges, and a wrong turn led me into Preston Hollow’s quiet embrace. Massive stone houses loomed behind wrought-iron gates, each one whispering lives I could only imagine. I slowed down, catching a glimpse of a manicured lawn through a cracked-open gate, unaware it was near Mark Cuban’s house in Dallas. That moment stuck with me, not for the opulence, but for the quiet pull of it all, like a secret I…

A Rainy Memory in Florence I remember that rainy afternoon in Florence, cobblestones gleaming under my boots. It was 2015, or maybe ’16 the Arno’s mist blurred the years into a sigh. I slipped into a tiny atelier off Via dei Calzaiuoli, air heavy with leather and secrets. My fingers, smudged from sketching in my travel journal, craved something real. Not cheap ballpoints that smudge, but a pen to hold a thought. The shopkeeper slid a Tibaldi across the counter, simple yet alive with history. I bought it on impulse, unaware of the Fulgor Nocturnus by Tibaldi, a pen born…

A Rainy Paris Memory I remember that rainy Paris afternoon, twenty-two, heart bruised from a breakup. I ducked into a florist’s shop off Rue de Rivoli, seeking shelter, not flowers. An old woman handed me a Black Baccara rose, its crimson-black petals swallowing light. “For the mysteries of the heart,” she winked, her voice thick with secrets. Years later, the Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail stirred that memory a $30 million car inspired by that rose. Sitting in my quiet living room, coffee cold, I wondered: What love crafts such a costly enigma? Who owns the Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire…