The Rooftop Garden

The roof is mine.

Not officially—the council would have a fit if they knew—but I've been growing things up here for three years. Tomatoes, herbs, the occasional pepper. A small piece of earth in a city made of concrete.

Then he finds it.

"This is incredible."

I spin around. A man is standing by the access door, staring at my garden with wonder.

"You're not supposed to be up here."

"Neither are you." He walks toward my tomato plants. "Did you grow all this yourself?"

"Who are you?"

"Yusuf. Flat 14C." He extends his hand. "I moved in last month. I saw you carrying soil up the stairs and got curious."

I should kick him out.

One word to the council and my garden is gone. My refuge. My therapy.

But he's looking at my plants like they're miracles.

"This is basil?"

"Sweet basil." I soften slightly. "Mediterranean variety."

"My mother grows this in Mogadishu." He touches a leaf gently. "I haven't smelled it since I left."

"When did you leave?"

"Three years ago." He looks up at me. "I've missed it. Missed growing things."

Against my better judgment, I let him stay.

He helps me water. Helps me weed. Asks questions about soil acidity and sunlight exposure like he actually cares.

"Why do you do this?" he asks as the sun sets over Peckham.

"Because everything else in my life is temporary." I look at my plants. "Jobs change. People leave. But seeds grow if you take care of them. They don't disappear."

"That's sad."

"That's realistic." I meet his eyes. "Some of us don't have the luxury of optimism."

"Maybe you just need better reasons to hope."

He comes back every evening.

Helps me tend the garden, tells me about his life—refugee, engineering student, trying to build something permanent in a country that keeps reminding him he's temporary.

"We're the same," I tell him one night. "Both trying to grow roots in concrete."

"But plants break through concrete eventually." He moves closer. "Maybe people can too."

"You're very philosophical for an engineer."

"Engineers build things." He takes my hand. "I want to build something with you."

"This is complicated," I say.

"Why?"

"Because I don't do—" I gesture between us. "This."

"This?"

"Letting people in. Letting them see—" I gesture at the garden. "—this. My private things."

"Too late." He steps closer. "I've seen it. And I think it's beautiful."

"It's just vegetables."

"It's your heart." He touches my face. "Laid out in rows. Carefully tended. Protected from everything that might hurt it." He leans closer. "Let me be something you tend, Sahra. Let me grow with you."

I kiss him between the tomato plants.

With the Peckham skyline spreading below us and the smell of basil in the air. My secret garden witnesses my secret surrender.

"Yusuf—"

"I've wanted this since I found you up here."

"We barely know each other."

"Then let's learn." He pulls me closer. "Let's learn everything."

The rooftop doesn't have a bed.

It has soil and plants and a camping blanket I keep for cold nights. We make do.

"This is—" I gasp as he lays me down.

"Perfect." He undresses me under the stars. "This is perfect."

He worships me in my garden.

Treats my body like he treats the plants—with careful attention, with patience, with wonder at what grows when you give things what they need.

"Yes—there—"

"You're so responsive—"

"I've been alone too long—"

"Not anymore." He pushes inside me. "Not ever again."

We make love with London watching.

The city lights twinkling below, the plants swaying gently around us, two people finding each other in the last place either expected.

"Sahra—"

"I know—"

"I'm falling for you—"

"I know." I pull him deeper. "I'm falling too."

We come together as the night settles.

Lie tangled on my blanket, surrounded by growing things, breathing the same air.

"The council will never know," he says.

"Know what?"

"That the best thing on this roof isn't the garden." He kisses my forehead. "It's you."

We tend the garden together after that.

Spring turns to summer. Summer brings harvests. We make meals with vegetables we grew and eat them on the roof where it all started.

"Move in with me," he says one evening.

"We already practically live together."

"Make it official." He holds up a key. "I got a bigger flat. 14A. More sun exposure for indoor plants."

"You got a flat for plants?"

"I got a flat for us." He presses the key into my hand. "Grow with me, Sahra. Not just here. Everywhere."

I take the key.

Move into his flat. Fill the windowsills with herbs. Keep the rooftop garden as our private place.

"We're building something," I tell him one night.

"We are."

"Something real. Something that might last."

"Something that will last." He pulls me close. "I'm an engineer, remember? I build things to last."

He does.

We do.

Together.

Growing through concrete.

Finally breaking through.