Screen Time
"She tutors Somali kids online—GCSE maths for diaspora families across the UK. He's the single dad who books her for his daughter and keeps finding excuses to join the sessions. The pixels become real when they finally meet."
His daughter is bright.
Yasmin, twelve, struggling with algebra but quick once it clicks. The usual story—good brain, bad confidence, just needs someone patient.
But the real challenge is her father.
"Mr. Hassan, you don't need to join every session."
"I want to learn too." He pulls up a chair next to Yasmin. "Never too old, right?"
He's forty-something. Widowed, I learn eventually. Trying to be both parents at once.
And completely distracting.
Weeks pass.
Yasmin improves. Her father keeps "auditing" lessons. I tell myself it's parental involvement.
It's not.
"You're very patient," he says after a session, while Yasmin's getting snacks.
"It's my job."
"It's more than that." His face softens on screen. "You make her believe she can do this."
"She can."
"That's exactly what I mean."
"Can I ask you something personal?" he says in week six.
"Depends."
"Are you seeing anyone?"
I blink at the screen. "That's definitely personal."
"I know. I'm sorry." He runs a hand through his hair. "I've been trying not to ask for weeks. Yasmin thinks I'm embarrassing."
"What do you think?"
"I think I'd regret not asking." He leans forward. "So. Are you?"
I'm not seeing anyone.
I tell him this. The smile that spreads across his face is worth every crossed professional line.
"Would you want to meet? In person?"
"For Yasmin's tutoring?"
"For dinner." He holds my gaze through the screen. "Just us. If you want."
We meet in Manchester.
Real, three-dimensional, no screen between us. He's taller than I expected, gentler than the pixels suggested.
"You're real," he says.
"So are you."
"I've been looking at you on a screen for two months." He takes my hand. "This is better."
Dinner becomes walking.
Walking becomes kissing against his car. Kissing becomes—
"Faisal—"
"I've been dreaming about this."
"Since when?"
"Since the first session when you explained variables and I forgot I was supposed to be learning."
We make love in his hotel room.
Pixels finally become flesh. Screens become touch. Everything we built online becomes real.
"You're incredible—"
"This is crazy—"
"This is perfect." He pushes deeper. "You're perfect."
Long distance becomes less distant.
I move to Manchester. Become Yasmin's permanent tutor—and something more to her father.
"She needs a mother," he says one day.
"She has memories of one."
"She needs more than memories." He takes my hand. "She needs someone who makes her believe she can do anything. Someone like you."
He proposes during Yasmin's GCSE celebration.
She passed with flying colors. I cry. She cries. He kneels.
"Be our family," he says. "Make this permanent."
I look at the girl I tutored. The man I fell for through a screen.
"Yes."
Best curriculum I ever taught.