Open Mic, Open Heart
"She performs spoken word at an open mic in Brixton. He's in the audience—the only one who doesn't clap politely but actually listens. After her set, he finds her at the bar. His words are better than any poem."
I speak about my father.
About losing him. About finding him in memories. About the weight of grief and the lightness of finally putting it into words.
When I finish, the audience claps.
One man doesn't clap.
He just looks at me like I've said something that matters.
"You didn't clap."
I find him at the bar after. He's Somali—obvious in the cheekbones, the posture, the way he holds his tea.
"I didn't think you needed clapping." He turns to face me. "You needed to be heard."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Clapping is noise. Being heard is different." He gestures to the stool beside him. "Sit?"
His name is Mahad.
Writer. Not performed—published, which feels different. He came to the open mic looking for inspiration.
"Did you find it?"
"I found something." He holds my gaze. "Your poem about your father. That line about 'hands that built everything and held nothing.' That was—"
"Too much?"
"Everything." He sets down his tea. "I lost my mother last year. I haven't been able to write about it. Your words gave me permission."
We talk until the venue closes.
Then keep talking outside, in the cold, neither of us wanting to leave.
"Can I see you again?" he asks.
"To hear more poems?"
"To hear more of you." He takes my hand. "The poems are part of you, but they're not everything."
"How do you know?"
"Because poems are distilled. You're the whole substance." He smiles. "I want the whole substance."
We date in cafés and bookshops and open mics.
He comes to every performance. I read his drafts before anyone else. We build something from words.
"I wrote something for you," he says one night.
"Read it."
He does.
It's about finding light in unexpected places. About a woman who speaks grief into healing. About falling for someone through their art.
"That's about me."
"That's everything I've felt since the night I didn't clap." He sets down the paper. "I love you, Amira."
I don't have words.
For the first time in my life, I don't have words.
So I kiss him instead.
We make love surrounded by his books.
Poets on every shelf watching us discover something they only wrote about.
"Mahad—"
"You're the best thing I've ever read."
"That's terrible."
"That's honest." He pushes deeper. "You're poetry made flesh."
A year later, I publish my first collection.
He writes the introduction.
"I first heard Amira speak at an open mic in Brixton. I didn't clap. I did something better—I listened. These poems are what happens when someone worthy of listening speaks."
"You're biased," I tell him at the launch.
"I'm in love." He pulls me close. "Same thing."
We marry in a venue where poets have performed for decades.
Our vows are written. Original. The audience claps.
But we don't need the clapping.
We have something better.
We have being heard.
Forever.