The Student Accommodation
"She's a Somali fresher at Queen Mary, sharing a flat with five strangers. He's the final-year student next door who helps her when she's locked out. The thin walls mean nothing is private—including what they do when they stop pretending to study."
University was supposed to be a fresh start.
New city. New people. A chance to be someone other than the good Somali daughter from Leicester who did everything right.
Then I got locked out of my flat at 2 AM, barefoot, in pajamas, and the boy next door opened his door.
"You okay?"
"I—yes—I just—" I gesture helplessly at my door. "My flatmates are out. I forgot my key."
"Want to wait at mine? I have tea."
I should say no. I don't know him. It's 2 AM.
"Yes please."
His name is Yusuf.
Final year, studying engineering. Born in London but raised in Bristol. He's been in student accommodation for three years and knows all the tricks—who to call when the heating breaks, which security guard will let you in without ID.
"First time getting locked out?" he asks, handing me tea.
"Yes."
"Won't be the last." He smiles. "This building is a nightmare. I got locked out twice in my first week."
"How do you survive it?"
"Good neighbors." He sits across from me. "I'm Yusuf, by the way. Flat 12B."
"Zahra. 12C."
"The flat with the thin walls."
I freeze. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" He looks embarrassed. "I can hear your flatmates. They're not quiet."
My flatmates are anything but quiet. Parties, arguments, romantic encounters that shake the walls.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't be." He leans back. "It's student accommodation. Nobody's quiet."
I become a regular visitor.
Locked out again a week later. Locked out because my flatmates have guests. Locked out because the lock is broken and maintenance takes forever.
Yusuf always answers. Always has tea. Never makes me feel like an imposition.
"You could just get a spare key," he says one night.
"I could." I curl up on his couch. "But then I wouldn't have an excuse to bother you."
He goes still.
"Is that why you come over?"
"Partly." I meet his eyes. "Is that okay?"
He sets down his tea. Moves to sit next to me.
"More than okay."
We kiss for the first time on his couch.
Soft. Tentative. The kiss of two people who've been circling each other for weeks.
"I've wanted to do that since you showed up barefoot in your pajamas," he admits.
"I looked terrible."
"You looked real." He kisses me again. "Everyone else here is playing a part. You were just—you."
"That's embarrassing."
"That's beautiful."
He deepens the kiss.
I let him.
The thin walls work both ways.
We hear my flatmates. They hear us. But somehow, knowing someone might hear makes everything more intense.
"Yusuf—"
"Shh." He kisses my neck. "They'll hear."
"Let them."
I pull him down onto his bed.
He takes his time with me.
This is new for both of us—him more experienced than me, but not by much. We figure it out together, fumbling and laughing and finding our rhythm.
"Is this okay?"
"Yes—more—"
He gives me more.
His mouth on my body. His hands learning my curves. His patience as I adjust to sensations I've only imagined.
"Yusuf—I want—"
"Tell me."
"You. All of you."
He enters me carefully.
We're both holding our breath, both aware of the significance. Then he moves, and I forget to be nervous.
"You feel—"
"Don't stop—"
He doesn't stop.
Moves inside me while I grip his shoulders, while the bed creaks, while my flatmates are definitely hearing everything through those thin walls.
"Yes—yes—"
"Zahra—I'm going to—"
"With me—"
We come together.
And lie there afterward, breathing hard, grinning at each other like idiots.
"So," he says.
"So."
"Want to get breakfast tomorrow? The dining hall opens at seven."
I laugh. "Is that your post-sex move? Breakfast?"
"My post-sex move is making sure there's a next time." He pulls me closer. "Is there a next time?"
"There's a next time." I kiss him. "And the time after that. And the time after that."
We date through his final year.
Study dates that become real dates. Thin walls that become our private joke. A relationship built in student accommodation, against all odds.
"What happens after you graduate?" I ask.
"I stay in London." He takes my hand. "Near you. If you want."
"I want."
"Then that's what happens." He kisses my palm. "Fresh starts don't have to end, Zahra. They can just keep going."
We keep going.
Through his graduation. Through my second year. Through ups and downs and thin walls that eventually become thick walls when we get our own flat.
"Remember when we met?" he asks, years later.
"I was locked out."
"You were perfect." He pulls me close. "You're still perfect."
"I'm still getting locked out."
"Some things never change." He grins. "Good thing I'm always here to let you in."
He is.
He always is.
And that's all that matters.