There’s something sacred about Saturday nights.
Not the kind where you plan the whole thing down to the minute. Not the ones with guest lists and RSVPs and fancy shoes that hurt before you even leave the house. No, I’m talking about the accidental magic kind—the ones that sneak up on you. The nights that weren’t supposed to mean anything, but end up meaning everything.
Core memories. Core memories.
That’s what we started calling them. As a joke, at first. But it stuck.
It always starts with someone texting, “What’s the move?” when it’s already past 8 p.m. and no one really has a plan. Someone’s half-dressed, someone’s half-asleep, someone’s already pouring a drink in case we do rally.
That night, it was Tasha who sparked it.
Tasha: Game night at mine. Bring snacks or don’t come. Pajama dress code. No exceptions.
Low effort. Low stakes. High vibes.
By 9:30, five of us were crammed into her living room, wearing mismatched sweats and fuzzy socks. Zara brought peach rings and hot Cheetos. Mia showed up with a Bluetooth speaker and a bag of ice nobody asked for. I had a bottle of cheap wine and my childhood blanket—because why not?
The playlist was half throwbacks, half chaos. Nelly into Ariana into High School Musical. No one was mad about it.
We started with Uno, which turned into Jenga, which turned into a heated round of “We’re Not Really Strangers” that got way too real, way too fast. Suddenly we were all talking about our biggest fears, first heartbreaks, and that one time we cried in Target.
Tasha laughed so hard she snorted. Mia got teary-eyed when Zara told her she was the “safest person I know.” I admitted I still slept with a nightlight sometimes, and no one even blinked.
Somewhere around midnight, we took a break and sat on the kitchen floor, passing around a box of cookies like it was communion.
“This is gonna be one of those nights we talk about in five years,” Mia said, mouth full of chocolate chip.
“Core memories,” Zara echoed, tapping her phone like she was mentally filing it away.
And just like that—it was.
Core memory:
Zara trying to teach us a TikTok dance and accidentally kicking a cup of soda into the wall.
Core memory:
All of us screaming lyrics to “Complicated” by Avril Lavigne like it was gospel.
Core memory:
Lying on the carpet in silence, just breathing, feeling full and soft and safe.
It wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever is.
Someone spilled hot Cheeto dust on Tasha’s white rug. My wine stained a pillow. The Bluetooth speaker died mid-chorus and we had to sing the rest of “Umbrella” a cappella.
But that’s the beauty of nights like these. You don’t remember the mess. You remember the feeling.
That sense of being exactly where you’re supposed to be, with exactly the right people, doing nothing extraordinary—but somehow making magic.
It’s not just nostalgia. It’s presence.
Those nights where time slows down just enough for you to notice the details—the way Zara’s laugh hiccups at the end, the way Mia always hums when she pours drinks, the way Tasha lights the same vanilla candle every time we come over.
Little things that don’t mean much alone.
But together?
Core memories.
Sometimes I think about how fragile it all is. How easily it could’ve been a night we all canceled. How in another timeline, we might’ve stayed in, too tired or too busy or too “meh” to bother.
But we showed up. We leaned in. We laughed too loud and overshared and forgot to take a single decent picture.
And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.
The world moves fast. People change, schedules shift, life happens. Not every Saturday night can be like that one.
But every time we get close—even a fraction of it—I feel it again.
That echo. That warmth.
That whisper of core memory, core memory.
A little reminder that joy doesn’t have to be loud. That friendship doesn’t always need glitter or grand plans. That the best moments often come in sweatpants, at the kitchen table, with someone telling a story they’ve already told five times.
And we’ll still laugh like it’s the first.
Because it’s ours.
And that’s more than enough.
