I crossed paths with Sal the other day—the same way we always do: half accident, half orbit. Sometimes it’s the beach, sometimes it’s a random errand, sometimes it’s that quiet Dubai magic where you swear the city is too big for coincidence, and then it proves you wrong anyway. We’ve only known each other for about a year, but certain people arrive with this strange familiarity, like they’ve been in the cast list longer than your memory can account for.
He’s in a different place now. Literally, mentally, soul-wise. A few months ago, life shoved him into one of those corners you don’t even know exists until you’re standing in it: his father passed away. Sudden. Sharp. The grief stretched across countries and airports and phone calls that reroute your entire nervous system. One moment, he was in Pakistan, at a bedside, still bargaining with hope; the next, he was back in Dubai, expected to resume routine like routine isn’t a joke after loss.
And then, predictably, it stopped working.
So he did the only sane thing: he moved. Packed up, found a job elsewhere, left the city that keeps you busy enough to confuse movement with healing. Saudi—Dammam, specifically. Different air. Different rhythm. Streets that don’t carry your old version of yourself like a shadow you can’t shake. Less noise to hide behind. More silence to either fight or finally listen to.
Adjusting wasn’t smooth at first. It never is. No beach squads, no weekend beach volleyball games, no familiar distractions to sweat the thoughts out. Just him, his grief, and the reality of starting again in a place that doesn’t care who you were before you arrived. But instead of letting the quiet suffocate him, he leaned into it. He built a new daily structure. Work. Routine. Small anchors. The slow, unglamorous discipline of choosing life again.
And now he’s sketching something bigger—an idea he’s carried for a while: an open-air sports camp for people who crave movement and connection more than AC and mall hours. The kind of thing that sounds simple until you realise it’s actually a whole philosophy. Sal is that type. He dreams, then he quietly draws maps for the dream when nobody’s watching. No announcements. No hype. Just planning, like he trusts the work more than the applause.
I told him I admire that. Out loud. It felt important to name it, because we don’t do that enough, do we? We notice people trying. We watch them rebuild. And we keep it inside, as if encouragement is a limited resource. So I said it plainly: I see what you’re doing—and I’m rooting for it.
We talked longer than usual. Dubai’s good chaos versus Saudi Arabia’s quieter push. The strange way grief can rip a hole through your plans and somehow hand you new ones, unasked for, unrequested, but maybe necessary. And somewhere in the middle of that conversation, I caught myself noticing something uncomfortable: how stale I’ve let my own energy get. Not because my life is objectively bad. Because I’ve started living like my questions are permanent furniture.
He’s moving—inside himself, not just on a map.
Meanwhile, I’m still here, same girl, same questions, same calendar full of half-finished to-do lists and beautifully framed chaos. I’ve become efficient at postponing my own clarity. I can organise anything except my own courage.
I left that catch-up lighter than I arrived. Hope does that sometimes—it sneaks in through other people. You borrow someone else’s momentum for an hour, and suddenly your own excuses look smaller. Less convincing. Slightly embarrassing.
Of course, I promised myself I’d hold onto that feeling the next morning.
Of course, I didn’t.
That’s my pattern: I collect beautiful conversations like souvenirs and then forget to turn them into action. I keep the inspiration sealed in memory, like it will preserve itself, like it won’t evaporate the second life starts asking for emails and groceries and “just one more thing.”
But maybe this one sticks. Or maybe I’ll forget again tomorrow—until the next accidental orbit brings Sal back around and reminds me, again, that changing your life isn’t mostly about geography. It’s about admitting—without flinching—that you want more.
And maybe—just maybe—I’ll remember it long enough to do something about it this time.
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