Week 45, 2026: The hug
On the second day of November, and the first day of the week, I was filled with hope and vigour that I haven’t felt since October 16th. I’d felt very little in the lead up to this flat viewing. It was a flat-share, one I’d scheduled back when I hadn’t yet considered the alternative: tiny unfurnished studios far outside of my budget.
In this big bohemian house live a soft-spoken landlady and a psychotherapist. They wear shoes inside the house and share fridge shelves like a family. There’s a swing in the middle of the living room. My eyes drift to the mount in the ceiling. Is it decorative or could it actually handle the weight of my body? Is it meant to be an art piece, much like the paintings scattered around the room? I wonder but don't ask. It feels impolite to acknowledge the swing as a first-time visitor. Seems like the kind of thing you have to build up to.
The walls of my prospective bedroom are painted dark green and I would get my own deck. My mother asks for the catch, ever-speculative. There’s no en-suite laundry, I say. I don’t mind walking to the laundrette. It was exciting and funny when I was twenty-two and it promises to at least deliver the latter now. So, I express my interest on Tuesday, learn she’s mutually interested on Wednesday, arrange to meet up again on Friday, sign the lease on Sunday.
Before Sunday arrives, I try not to put all my eggs in one basket and arrange a couple more viewings. One is virtual. The girl who arranged it wants to see if we’ll vibe virtually. I’m unsure if we vibe to her satisfaction but when she says she’d be down to watch a film sometime, she sounds like she means it.
The other one is a second viewing. I want to show my father, who is in town along with my brother, the stove-less studio, as it is now my second-best option. It feels like cheating to treat this stove-less studio seriously.
It has been so nice having them around. It’s nice even when I have to remind them to please walk in a single file when there’s foot traffic. I didn’t know how much stress I’d been feeling until I took time off work and packed enough clothes to camp on their sofa bed. I used my brother’s toothpaste and got under the green duvet with a wet bob. Their visit felt like getting a massage, the tension release so immediate and intense and retrospective. It almost hurt. It did hurt. It is temporary and so it hurts.
My father, heading out in the cold to get me an extra large dark roast coffee while I rub the sleep out of my eyes, conversing with waiters and drivers and shop owners, helping me pick out a dress for a work gala. All of his picks were a little tacky of course but I tried them on for his sake. I found a hidden gem in a vintage store, an LBD with a velvety top. The lady working the till stood next to me in front of the changing room mirror and said it fit me perfectly and I’d be amiss not to buy it.
I asked if she thought it was gala-appropriate because my mother was not replying to my texts and she said petite people can get away with breaking the rules. Did you hear her call me petite? I elbowed my brother at the till, ready to press my card to the machine. She’s a good saleswoman, he quipped.
I feel lucky watching my father charm people right, left and centre. It gets us complimentary dishes. Falafel here, rice pudding there. I watch him talk to staff, to my friend, to my brother. He is laughing so hard with one of the waiters that it feels like they are long-lost brothers. On our way out, the waiter asks for a hug. My brother and I smile big. I elbow him again. How come no waiter has asked me for a hug in the six months I’ve been here?, I whisper, and our smiles widen.
I watch the way he talks to me too. On Saturday night, I feel so overwhelmed I start bawling my eyes out. This isn’t easy, I cry. Starting over is hard and lonely. I cry so hard my ears get blocked. Migration is not easy, I say repeatedly, unable to explain. And he listens. And he waits until my crying no longer sounds so hysterical. And then he says: remember the man who asked for a hug? I don’t know him but I will never forget him.
How could I forget about the hug? It's the whole point.