Latest Blog Post

Dinner, Laughter, and Looking at Him Differently

After the calls and the solo cake moment, I met Noor outside the hotel. “Hungry?” he asked, already knowing the answer. I nodded, and we wandered into the kind of neighborhood that glows soft at night—dim storefronts, noodle steam spilling out of old doors, quiet laughter from open windows.

He found a ramen shop tucked in an alley like a secret. Two seats open at the counter, warm broth already scenting the air. I ordered extra toppings. He let me steal from his bowl like it was expected. We didn’t talk about the day. Instead, we joked about the shop cat curled up behind the rice cooker, about how this one couple was whisper-arguing like they were afraid their food would hear them. I laughed so much, my cheeks ached.

Afterward, we wandered aimlessly, past glowing signs and sidewalk singers. The city was loud in that comforting way. We found a rooftop café, half-closed, with strawberry tart on the menu and a view that didn’t need words. I leaned into the railing. Noor stood beside me, quiet, steady. “You feel more like yourself today,” he said. Not older. Not changed. Just… centered. It stayed with me.

Back in the hotel, I opened the little cake box again. “You want the rest?” I asked, already handing him the fork. “Obviously,” he grinned, sitting cross-legged on the floor like it was home. He devoured the rest of it while making dramatic reviews—“airy texture, five stars, but could use more frosting.” I laughed until I flopped back on the bed, full of food and something softer.

Noor didn’t leave.

We didn’t talk about what the night meant. We didn’t have to. He was just there, warm and close, eating birthday cake on a carpeted floor like it was sacred.

And for me… maybe it was.
Part 2