Author: Saba Javed

A Childhood Spark Rekindled I can still smell the salt in the air that summer evening when I was eleven, curled up on the couch in my aunt’s seaside cottage, mesmerized by a grainy documentary about the ocean’s hidden worlds. The flickering screen showed coral reefs pulsing with life, narrated by a voice that made the deep feel like a friend whispering secrets. That memory, tucked away for years, came rushing back when I first learned about the OceanXplorer. This isn’t just a ship it’s Ray Dalio’s $200 million dream, a research yacht chasing the same mysteries that captivated me…

A Humid Night on the Fire Escape It was a humid summer evening in 2007, the air thick with salt and diesel from Miami’s docks, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. I was 22, fresh off a dead-end job at a dive shop, sitting on my fire escape with a lukewarm beer. The city lights flickered like promises I couldn’t keep, their glow mingling with the distant crash of waves. My grandfather had just passed, leaving behind a cluttered apartment and his vintage Rolex Oyster a battered ’70s Submariner, its black dial faded like an old photograph. That watch,…

A Memory Under the Acacia I remember that dusty afternoon in 2017, the Riyadh sun heavy and low, casting long shadows over minarets. I was wandering Al Rajhi Park, clutching a lukewarm coffee, when my phone lit up with news: Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman MBS had unveiled NEOM, a city rising from the desert like a dream. I paused under a scraggly acacia, scrolling through renders of mirrored towers, and thought, What if palaces aren’t just stone anymore? It felt like reading a prince’s diary, one born in the royal palaces of Saudi Arabia, steeped in history and excess.…

The Jacket That Held Me Together I remember the first time I stepped into a vintage store in NYC, that sticky August when I was twenty-two, crashing on a friend’s creaky air mattress in an East Village walk-up. The city was a fever dream sweat, sirens, and that hum of possibility that made you feel like you could become someone new with every corner you turned. I’d come from a small upstate town where shopping was just the mall or my sister’s old clothes, but here, on East 9th Street, I found a faded denim jacket in a dim-lit shop,…

A Rainy Day with Lila’s Pixie I remember that rainy afternoon in my tiny Brooklyn apartment, the kind of gray day where the windows fogged up from the kettle boiling tea too long. It was maybe five years ago time blurs when you’re lost in old photos and I was flipping through faded Polaroids from my cousin Lila’s wedding. There she was, her short hair cropped just below her ears in that bold pixie she’d sworn by since college, looking like she could dance through a downpour without a care. What caught me wasn’t her smile or the veil; it…

The Winter My Skin Fell Apart I remember that brutal Chicago winter in college, my junior year, when my skin turned against me. The wind sliced through my coat, and every morning I’d wake to cheeks so dry they looked like cracked earth. Staring into the foggy dorm bathroom mirror, I thought, “This isn’t me the girl who used to chase sunsets, now a map of flakes and redness.” I tried everything: drugstore creams that itched, stolen serums that stung. Nothing felt right. Maybe that’s why, years later, scrolling through Reddit threads on prequel skincare reviews in my city apartment,…

Snowy Nights and Faded Flannel I remember that winter in college, snow piling against my dorm window like it wanted to swallow my dreams whole. Midterms had me buried in faded pink flannel pajamas, sent from home, still carrying a whisper of Mom’s lavender detergent. At night, I’d curl up under a thin blanket, thinking, this is comfort, isn’t it? But mornings meant swapping them for jeans that pinched and sweaters that scratched like regret. Looking back, I wonder if that’s when I started craving comfort clothes that didn’t feel like a compromise. Maybe that’s why, on sharp-edged evenings now,…

A Rainy Coffee Shop Moment I remember that rainy afternoon in the coffee shop, the one with chipped mugs and windows fogged from the drizzle. We were driving back from his family’s place upstate, my husband’s dark curls catching the light, my pale fingers laced with his. The radio mentioned Loving Day, the 1967 ruling that made interracial marriage legal nationwide, and I thought, This is us, a mixed race couple, just trying to make it through the storm. The barista, an older woman with deep laugh lines, slid our coffees over and whispered, “You two remind me of my…

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…