Cracked Screens and Open Hearts
"She drops her phone at Oxford Circus and the screen shatters. He's the Somali guy at the repair kiosk who says he can fix it in an hour. She waits. They talk. By the time her phone is ready, she doesn't want to leave."
My phone hits the ground with a sound like breaking hearts.
Screen shattered. Spider web of cracks across everything. The woman behind me tuts sympathetically and keeps walking.
The repair kiosk is ten feet away.
"How bad is it?"
The guy behind the counter takes my phone, examines it, winces.
"One hour. Fifty pounds."
"Done." I have a meeting in two hours. "Can I wait here?"
"There's a chair." He gestures to a folding chair beside his counter. "I'm Idris, by the way."
"Sahra." I sit. "You do this all day?"
"All day, every day." He starts working on my phone. "Broken screens are reliable. People always break their phones."
"That sounds depressing."
"That sounds like job security." He smiles. "You'd be surprised how many people I've met. Everyone has a story."
"What's my story?"
"You tell me."
So I tell him.
Marketing job I hate. Flat in Acton I can barely afford. Life that looks good on Instagram and feels empty everywhere else.
"That's very honest," he says.
"You asked."
"Most people say 'busy' or 'fine.' You gave me an actual answer."
"You're fixing my phone. Seems fair to give you something in return."
"Then I'll give you something back." He keeps working while he talks. "I came here from Somalia five years ago. Worked every job that would have me. Found out I was good with phones. Opened this kiosk."
"That's the whole story?"
"That's the framework." He looks up. "The details take longer than an hour."
"Maybe I'll break my phone again."
The hour passes too quickly.
He hands me my phone—screen perfect, like it never cracked. I pay him. Stand to leave.
And don't leave.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"You've been asking me things for an hour."
"One more." I take a breath. "Are you free for coffee?"
Coffee becomes dinner.
Dinner becomes walking through Oxford Street while the shops close. We talk about everything—family, dreams, the loneliness of living in a city full of people.
"I don't do this," I admit.
"Do what?"
"Talk to strangers. Ask them to coffee. Walk around London at midnight."
"Maybe you should do it more." He stops walking. Faces me. "You seem happier now than when you walked up to my kiosk."
"Maybe it's the company."
"Maybe it is."
We end up at his flat.
Small. Neat. The home of someone who built everything from nothing.
"Tea?" he offers.
"Tea sounds perfect."
"Or—" He sets down the cups. "We could skip the tea."
"Idris—"
"I know." He steps closer. "We just met. This is fast. All of that is true."
"But?"
"But I've talked to a thousand people at that kiosk. And none of them made me want to invite them home." He touches my face. "There's something here. Tell me you feel it too."
I feel it.
I've felt it since he took my broken phone and started putting it back together.
"This is crazy," I whisper.
"This is the best day I've had in years." He kisses me. "Let me make it better."
He makes it better.
On his secondhand couch, with London glittering outside, we turn a cracked screen into something unexpected.
"Idris—"
"I've got you—"
He worships me like I'm precious. Like I'm someone worth fixing. Like the details of me take longer than an hour but he's willing to learn.
"Sahra—" he gasps. "You're incredible—"
"You're inside me in your flat—" I pull him deeper. "We met four hours ago—"
"Best four hours of my life—"
We come together.
Lie tangled on his couch. Laugh at the absurdity of how we got here.
"So," he says. "What now?"
"Now you give me your number."
"You have my number. It's on your receipt."
"For business. I want your personal number."
"Same number." He grins. "But I'll make a note that you're not calling about phone repairs."
"What am I calling about?"
"Us." He pulls me close. "Whatever we're becoming."
We become something.
Dates between his shifts. Nights at his flat. A relationship that started with broken glass and turned into something whole.
"I'm going to tell people we met at Oxford Circus," I say.
"You can tell them you broke your phone."
"That's embarrassing."
"That's fate." He kisses me. "Every broken screen leads somewhere. Yours led to me."
Mine did.
Best crack I ever made.