The First Meeting
Yusuf came back on a Saturday in July. His family had a noisy unpacking weekend. Esme stayed away — that was a private family time, and her mother had said: "Give them three days."
On the Tuesday afternoon, Esme walked to Yusuf's house. The same house. She knew the doorbell. She had not pressed it in two years.
Yusuf opened the door.
He was taller. He looked awkward in his own skin in a particular eleven-year-old way. He looked, also, slightly anxious — a feeling Esme recognised because she had it too.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
A small awkward silence.
"You — wanna come in?"
"Yeah."
She came in. The hallway was the same. The smell of the house was the same — something warm, with cardamom from his mother's cooking. The familiar smell hit Esme harder than she had expected. She did not cry, but it was close.
They sat on the floor of his bedroom. Yusuf's room was half-unpacked. Boxes everywhere. His old desk was back. His old bookshelf was back. Some of the books were ones Esme remembered. Some were new.
Neither of them said much, at first.
Then Yusuf said, "This is weirder than I thought it would be."
"Yeah," said Esme. "Same."
"I thought it would be like picking up. But you're — you're a bit different."
"I am. So are you."
He thought about this.
"Is that a bad thing?"
She considered.
"I don't think so. I just don't know what we are now. We were best friends. Then