The flat was quiet when I stepped in—except for the sound of the TV coming from the living room. A familiar warmth wrapped around me, not from food or candles, but from the faint, lingering scent of the lavender air freshener Mama always sprayed too generously.
I dropped my bag next to the shoe rack and slid off my trainers, the weight of the evening still pressing down on my shoulders.
Laughter erupted from the TV.
"Next up, we have a dance troupe all the way from Sheffield!"
I didn't even need to look. Mama was definitely watching *Britain's Got Talent*. Again.
"Noah? That you?" she called from the sofa.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice flat.
"Come eat before your food gets cold, baba. I got your Halep."
That made me pause.
I turned the corner into the living room and saw her in her usual spot—cushioned into the side of the couch like she was part of it, her legs tucked under a fleece blanket, glasses perched low on her nose. She had a mug of tea in her hand and a paper bag from "Mangal Express" on the table.
"Double garlic sauce and chili, right?" she asked, smirking without looking at me.
"You spoil me," I muttered, trying not to smile as I sank to the floor and started opening the box.
The smell hit me instantly—juicy grilled meat, warm bread, lemony onions. It filled the room like something holy.
She finally looked at me over her glasses.
"Why you look like someone ate rob(Noahs tortoise)?"
"Just tired," I said, chewing slowly.
"Mm-hmm." She sipped her tea. "Tired. Is that what we're calling heartbreak these days?"
I stopped chewing.
"It's not—" I shook my head. "It's not like that."
"So it's not about a girl?"
"No."
She raised one eyebrow.
"I see," she said, unconvinced.
We sat in silence for a few seconds while some bloke on TV tried to juggle flaming batons blindfolded. I focused on my food, hoping she'd let it go.
"You know," she said finally, "if some girl did break your heart, that just means she made space for the one who won't."
I glanced up at her.
She shrugged.
"And if you can't find her, don't worry. I will. You think I don't know how to set up my own son?"
I laughed, genuinely this time.
"Please don't."
"You think I don't have connections? I've got WhatsApp groups, Noah."
"Jesus no."
"One of them is a doctor. You'll love her."
I shook my head, smiling into my box of food.
"You're not real."
"Only because Im your mother."
She leaned forward and ruffled my hair. I ducked away, pretending to be annoyed, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me. No matter how fake I tried to act, I couldn't pretend I didn't need that tonight.
"You'll be alright," she said gently. "Whatever it is. You're strong. Stronger than you know."
I nodded, still chewing.
She turned back to the TV and didn't say anything more. Just let me eat in peace.
The Halep tasted incredible. But beneath the tomatoes and the warmth, my chest still ached a little. Like a bruise on my heart no one could see.
I was smiling, yeah.
But inside, I knew I wasn't fully okay.
Not yet.
Still—I'd get there.
I always did.
After dinner, I headed into my room, shutting the door behind me softly. The glow from the streetlight outside spilled across the floor. I lay back on my bed, pulled my hoodie over my head, and slid on my headphones. I scrolled until I found it—"Make Your Own Kind of Music". The song started slow, soft, steady.