Her, in soft focus
A few of the ordinary moments that, for me, never were.
I keep coming back to this
Things I wrote down
The kind you never send.
Sometimes I wonder how memories choose themselves.
Out of all the days we live, why do a few stay with us while the rest quietly disappear?
Whenever I think about where this story began, my mind always returns to one warm afternoon.
You had just walked up the stairs, and I remember turning on the air conditioner before we sat down.
Coffee arrived soon after. Back then, I had only just started drinking coffee. I ordered a single-shot Americano and, without a second thought, emptied three sugar packets into it.
The meeting itself was professional. We spoke about work. We exchanged ideas. When it ended, it felt like every other meeting. Nothing more.
Some time later, during one of our conversations, coffee somehow became the topic. You mentioned that coffee wasn't really meant to be taken with sugar.
It's funny. Whenever I think about that first meeting, that's one of the details that always comes back to me.
Not because it was important. Just because memory decided it was.
I never realised places could remind me of people. Then you happened.
Sesame. A frappé with coconut ice cream. Universal Café. Shadheko momo. Red Panda. Jhol momo. Hetauda Resort. Fish fingers—not because we ever had them together, but because I remember you talking about them.
Each place slowly collected a memory.
Not because of the food. Not because of the coffee. Because of the conversations that somehow made ordinary afternoons feel lighter.
Sometimes I wonder whether places become special because of where they are... or because of who we remember when we think of them.
The first time you told me about your dog, I realised how deeply you cared.
You weren't just telling a story. You were remembering someone you loved.
Later, we spoke about your grandfather. As you talked, your voice changed. You tried to stay composed, but I could see how much he still meant to you.
That conversation stayed with me.
Not because it was sad. Because it showed me the kind of person you are.
Someone who loves deeply. Someone who carries people in her heart long after they're gone.
I don't think kindness is something you try to be. I think it's simply who you are.
There was one conversation I'll probably never forget.
I spoke about things I don't usually talk about.
The struggles I had been carrying. The thoughts I normally keep to myself.
You didn't interrupt. You didn't rush to give advice. You simply listened.
Looking back, I realise how rare that is.
Sometimes the greatest kindness isn't finding the right words.
It's making someone feel heard.
The older I get, the more I realise life is built from little things.
The excitement you have whenever your birthday gets closer. Your love for sunflowers. The skincare advice you casually gave me.
The packet of chia seeds you surprised me with one day for absolutely no reason.
The tiny hair we found in the pasta at Himalayan Restaurant.
The chocolates that somehow keep finding their way into my shopping basket because they remind me of you.
None of these moments changed the world.
But they quietly became part of mine.
When people walk into the office, they probably just see a workplace. I see memories.
The first coffee beans you brought when we were just starting this office. The posters on the wall that you designed. The artificial sunflower sitting in the middle of the table.
Most people probably walk past it without even noticing. I can't. Every time I see it, I think of you.
Sometimes I'd look up while working and see you completely focused on your own work. Serious. Dedicated. Quietly determined.
There was something inspiring about watching someone care so much about doing things well.
Then there were the cups of coffee you made.
Simple moments. Simple gestures. Yet somehow they became some of my favourite parts of an ordinary workday.
If someone had asked me years ago what memories would stay with me, I doubt I would have listed any of these.
Three sugar packets. A frappé with coconut ice cream. Shadheko momo. Jhol momo. Fish fingers. A packet of chia seeds. An artificial sunflower. Office posters. A cup of coffee. A quiet conversation. A smile.
It's amazing how memory works. It doesn't always keep the biggest moments.
Sometimes it keeps the smallest ones because, without us realising it, those were the moments that made life feel a little warmer.
Reading back through these pages, I notice something.
None of these entries are about extraordinary days. They're about ordinary afternoons. Coffee. Work. Food. Conversations. Kindness.
Tiny details that could have easily been forgotten. Yet they stayed.
Perhaps that's the beautiful thing about memories. They don't ask for permission before becoming important. They simply settle somewhere within us and wait for the day we look back.
These pages aren't here to prove anything. They're simply a reminder to myself that life is often changed quietly.
Sometimes all it takes is a conversation, a cup of coffee, a shared meal, or a thoughtful gesture.
And years later, those ordinary moments become the ones we treasure the most.
I'm grateful I remembered them. And I'm grateful they happened.
— Randhir
through every ordinary day