The Ramadan Neighbor
"She shares iftar with her new neighbor every night during Ramadan—a Somali man who just moved into the flat across the hall. By the twenty-seventh night, they're sharing more than food. The holiest nights lead to the most human confessions."
He moves in on the first day of Ramadan.
I hear boxes in the hallway, the grunt of furniture being shifted. When I open my door to investigate, I find a Somali man wrestling with a couch that's too big for the lift.
"Need help?"
"I've got it." He clearly doesn't have it.
"I'm making iftar in two hours." I lean against my doorframe. "Come over. No one should break fast alone on the first night."
He looks at me. Then at the couch. Then back at me.
"I'm Yusuf."
"Samira." I smile. "Flat 12B."
"Flat 12A." He gestures at the couch. "Currently being defeated by furniture."
"I'll leave my door unlocked."
He comes at sunset.
Still sweaty from moving, apologizing for his appearance. I wave it off—we're fasting, we're tired, none of us look our best.
"This is incredible," he says, eating my lamb stew like he hasn't had home cooking in years.
"My mother's recipe."
"Your mother is a genius."
"I'll tell her you said that." I watch him eat. "Where did you move from?"
"Sheffield. New job."
"What job?"
"Teacher. Secondary maths."
"Then you definitely need good food." I push more rice toward him. "Teachers run on empty."
We fall into a routine.
Every night, I cook. Every night, he knocks at sunset. Every night, we break fast together and talk until taraweeh.
I learn his story—raised in Sheffield, parents back in Mogadishu, single because his last relationship ended when she wanted someone less focused on his work.
"She said I cared more about my students than her," he tells me on night fifteen.
"Did you?"
"Maybe." He sets down his fork. "Is that terrible?"
"It's honest." I meet his eyes. "Better than pretending."
Night twenty-seven.
Laylatul Qadr, potentially. The night when prayers are answered, when angels descend, when everything sacred feels close enough to touch.
We pray taraweeh in my living room—him in front, me behind, following his recitation. His voice is beautiful, carrying verses I've heard a thousand times but never like this.
After, we sit in silence.
"Can I tell you something?" he asks.
"Anything."
"I look forward to this. Every day." He turns to face me. "The fasting is hard. The job is hard. But knowing I'll see you at sunset makes all of it bearable."
"Yusuf—"
"I know." He looks down. "It's Ramadan. I should be focused on worship, not—"
"Not what?"
"Not how beautiful you look in lamplight. Not how your voice sounds when you laugh. Not how much I want to—" He stops himself.
"Want to what?"
He meets my eyes.
"Touch you."
We should wait.
It's Ramadan. It's the holiest night. We're supposed to be praying, not—
"This is wrong," I whisper.
"I know."
"We should wait until Eid."
"I know."
"Yusuf—"
He kisses me.
Soft. Sacred. A prayer of its own kind.
We don't go further.
Not that night. We kiss, hold each other, confess things we've been hiding for twenty-seven nights. But we don't cross the final line.
"After Eid," he says, forehead against mine.
"After Eid."
"Is that a promise?"
"It's more than a promise." I squeeze his hand. "It's a date."
Eid comes.
We pray in Victoria Park, surrounded by thousands. He holds my hand through the crowd—the first time we've touched in public.
"Eid Mubarak," he says when we're alone again.
"Eid Mubarak."
"Is it after Eid now?"
"It's been after Eid for hours."
"Then—" He pulls me close. "Can I finally show you what I've been feeling?"
"I've been waiting thirty days for you to show me."
He takes me to his flat.
The one across the hall that's been full of boxes and good intentions. Now it's full of us—tangled on his unmade bed, finally giving in.
"Yusuf—"
"Thirty days—" He kisses down my body. "Thirty days of wanting this—"
"Then stop talking and take it—"
He does.
He worships me like he worshipped during prayer.
Thorough. Devoted. Every touch intentional, every kiss meaningful.
"Please—"
"Not yet." He spreads my thighs. "Let me do this right."
His mouth finds me.
I understand why he's such a good teacher—patient, attentive, responsive to feedback.
"There—yes—"
He takes notes. Applies them. Builds toward something that feels like thirty days of tension finally releasing.
"Yusuf—I'm going to—"
"Let go. I've got you."
I shatter.
He's inside me before I've stopped shaking.
"Thirty days—" he gasps as he moves.
"Worth the wait?"
"Better than I imagined—"
"You imagined this?"
"Every night. Across the hall. Knowing you were right there—"
I pull him deeper.
"Now you're here."
"Now I'm home."
We come together.
Fall into each other.
Rest.
"So," he says eventually. "Are we still having iftar together?"
"Ramadan's over."
"I meant dinner." He rolls to face me. "Every night. For the foreseeable future."
"That's a big commitment."
"I just spent thirty days learning you." He takes my hand. "I'm ready for bigger commitments."
"Like what?"
"Like whatever comes next." He kisses my palm. "Whatever you want it to be."
It becomes everything.
Dinners every night. Weekend mornings in bed. Two flats across the hall slowly becoming one.
"Move in with me," he says the next Ramadan.
"We basically live together already."
"I want it official." He pulls me close. "I want to break fast with you for the rest of my life."
"That's very romantic for a maths teacher."
"Even maths teachers have feelings." He grins. "What do you say?"
I say yes.
What else could I say?
Some neighbors are just neighbors.
Some are the answer to prayers you didn't know you were making.
And the holiest nights—the ones where everything feels possible—sometimes they lead to the most beautiful ordinary days.