Chapter 1

Hi, my name is Malek, and I’m 24 years old.

You might look at me now and think I’m a strong guy—standing in front of a pool table, cue stick in hand, steady gaze.

But the truth?

I used to be the kind of person who panicked when someone stared at me for more than a few seconds.

I’m from Egypt.

Born in a small alley in Alexandria, not far from the sea…

But honestly, I never really went there.

My mother was always afraid of the water. She used to say:

"The sea is a traitor, Malek... just like the people who pretend to love you."

I grew up with this strange belief:

That someone who loves you can still leave you,

And a complete stranger can say something that makes you feel like you’re not enough.

And my father?

He was always away.

A trader, always chasing money, chasing opportunity—chasing everything except us.

And me?

I used to sit by the window, watching the world go by,

Feeling like I was stuck in place.

The first time I saw a pool table, I was 13.

A friend took me to this old game hall at the end of the street.

We went in laughing, just to watch.

But when I picked up the cue stick… I felt something strange.

Something like peace.

The calm I had been searching for for years.

I played every day.

Sometimes I told my mom I had lessons, and I’d sneak off to practice for two or three hours.

I wasn’t playing to become a champion,

I was playing to escape.

From people’s voices, from the chaos,

From the terrifying thought that I didn’t even know why I was alive.

After high school, a big crisis hit our family.

My dad lost a huge part of his money.

My mom was drowning in worry.

And in the middle of it all—I decided to leave.

I won’t pretend I was brave or adventurous.

I was just suffocating.

And when you can’t breathe, you start doing strange things.

I flew to Germany.

Just me, a bag of clothes, 200 euros,

And a few sentences I could barely remember in German.

I slept the first two weeks in a tiny room above a car workshop.

Then I got a job at a small café.

Washed dishes.

Messed up the language a lot.

Got yelled at by people who didn’t even know how to explain what I did wrong.

But time passed.

I started to understand the people, the country…

And I went back to playing pool.

Entered a small tournament—and won.

Then a bigger one…

And today—I’m here, at an international championship.

People are clapping for me.

But right now, none of that really matters.

You know what does?

After every match, when I walk alone down the street,

I feel like something’s missing.

Someone to walk beside me.

Someone to hug me when I win.

Someone to call my name in a way that makes my heart soar.

I’m not looking for a movie love story.

I just want one person.

Someone whose eyes make me feel like I’ve finally arrived.

---

Most nights after practice,

I leave the hall and sit on the curb in front of my favorite café.

Order a Turkish coffee.

Listen to Fairuz on my headphones.

Everyone around me speaks in foreign tongues.

And me?

I wait.

Maybe one day, a girl will walk by, hear the music, and ask:

"Are you Arab?"

Maybe…

Maybe it’ll be her.

The one whose very presence makes my heart whisper:

"Malek, don’t let her go."

The first time I truly felt alone?

When my mom cried—and I had no idea how to comfort her.

She sat on the edge of the bed,

Staring at the floor like she’d lost something.

But really, it was a piece of her heart that had fallen.

My dad had left again, without saying when he’d come back.

I was 16.

That night, I looked into the mirror and said:

"Malek, from now on… you’re the man of the house."

But no one ever tells you what the man’s supposed to do when he needs a hug.

I grew older, my body grew stronger…

But inside?

I was still that little boy, hiding behind the bedroom door when he heard screaming.

Still the kid who tensed up at the word “loss.”

Still the one who lit up from the smallest gesture—

Like when my mom used to hug me out of nowhere and say:

"You’re a blessing, Malek—even if the whole world walks away."

But I walked away.

From her.

From the window where I used to watch the world.

From the sound of the sea.

From the smell of fresh laundry in the morning.

From everything I thought I didn’t need…

And I realized—that was my real home.

In exile,

Your voice gets quieter.

But your heart screams louder.

You ever wake up in the morning, and you don’t even know where you are?

Not because you forgot the place—

But because no one calls your name,

No smell of breakfast,

No knock on the door saying:

"Malek, wake up."

Every morning in Germany, the first thing I did was play an old recording of my mom on my phone:

"Malek, don’t forget your jacket—it’s going to get cold later."

Funny, right?

I’m 24 years old, and I still listen to my mother’s voice before I step outside.

I play pool, but inside… there’s noise.

Every point I win, I feel like I’m losing something.

Maybe because I’m playing alone.

Every time I win—there’s no hug.

No one running toward me saying: “I’m proud of you.”

I’m tired of achievements no one shares.

Of Instagram pictures full of likes,

But no eyes that look at me with real love.

One day, after practice,

I passed by a small café,

And sat at my usual corner seat.

Same table, same coffee.

But that day…

I was exhausted.

Not from the game, or from work,

But from loneliness.

Not the kind where there’s no one around—

But the kind where you’re surrounded by people,

And still… no one really sees you.

I’ve met a lot of people.

Beautiful girls.

Nice conversations, laughter, stares…

But I never felt safe.

Never felt like I could fully let go.

I’m looking for someone who, when she looks at me—I feel seen.

Not my clothes, not my looks.

Me.

All of me:

My fears, my doubts, the child inside.

I want someone who sits beside me after practice at the pool table,

Laughs while imitating me,

And says:

"Malek, you think too much… come here."

And I hug her like she’s home.

Not a hug of desire.

Not a moment that fades.

A hug that reminds me why I live,

why I fought,

why I’m still trying.

I love love.

From afar.

In songs, in films, in my small dreams.

But maybe… maybe the next few days will change everything.

Maybe…

Maybe she’ll pass by.

Maybe she’ll look at me.

Maybe she’ll ask: “Are you Arab?”

And I’ll say: “Yeah, Egyptian.”

And she’ll smile…

And in that moment,

I’ll know I’ve finally—arrived.

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