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Four days of fever.

My body woke up

before I did.

My voice

was still somewhere behind me.

But the sun was loud.

Too loud to ignore.

So I took my bicycle,

thinking maybe a haircut

could lighten something

I didn’t know how to name.

The barbers were Kurdish.

Warm.

The kind of warmth

that doesn’t ask questions.

They made space for my bicycle

like it belonged there.

I sat on the sofa.

Watched mirrors

practice different faces.

Then a man walked in.

Not a stranger to them.

He asked,

“What do you want to drink?”

Tea.

Coffee.

Chai latte.

He stepped outside.

Came back.

Opened the door just enough

to let kindness in.

“And you?”

I said no.

I usually do.

He came back again.

“Are you sure?”

The scissors stopped.

Someone laughed.

“Jackpot,” the barber said.

As if kindness

were something you win.

So I said yes.

Softly.

Like I was borrowing warmth.

Later he returned

with cups for everyone.

It was Mother’s Day.

He had a careful beard.

The kind you grow

when you take time with things.

He handed me a chai.

Steam rising.

I thanked him.

Not loudly.

But from somewhere

that needed it.

I had never met him before.

But I hoped

wherever he goes,

someone asks him

what he wants to drink…

and waits.

The fever stayed.

But something loosened.

And for a moment

I wasn’t sick,

or shy,

or small.

I was just a person

holding a warm cup

in a sunny room. ☕🌤️