Three years ago, I was introduced to Youssef Ayari by the publication of his first novel, Wading, which cataloged the trials faced by a pair of siblings as they escaped famine and made their journey to Europe. It was heart-wrenching and yet, as I read the dry-witted dialogue, I still managed to find myself laughing through my salty tears.

At the time, I had been inundated with pop fiction and trite mystery thrillers. Youssef's writing, by contrast, was fresh and elegantly tied together with lyrical prose. He was nearly unheard of in the publishing world, and though I searched eagerly for more of his work I came up uncharacteristically empty-handed.

About six months before my trip to Hay-on-Wye, I came across his name in a science fiction subscription magazine of all places.

It turns out, Youssef had not fallen off the face of the planet since publishing his first book—like I had begun to suspect—but rather fallen into flash and micro fiction, some of which embodied a dystopian flare that had been selected for the magazine's anthology. I contacted the editor asking how best to contact Youssef or his agent, but I only received a curt response that the magazine was not in the habit of assisting "competitor publications." So when Youssef's name appeared again on the Hay's Festival list of featured panelists, I knew it could very well be my only opportunity to meet the beautiful mind behind the words that had so hypnotized me.

In the end, I had allowed Youssef to walk me past the growing queue and timidly followed as he led me through the rows of seats and back behind the elevated stage. I stayed with him while he was fitted with a microphone and performed soundcheck. To my surprise, none of the staff seemed to mind my presence and easily moved around me as they went about their business.

As I was taking notes on the layout of the venue, my phone chirped reminding me to put it on silent.

Busy day?

I smiled down at the screen as I typed back my reply: Insanely.

Time to chat tonight?

My smile faltered slightly.

As I reread the text, I could almost hear Tom's voice like I had heard it nearly every night since leaving London. Usually, he was the one to call as I was often lost in work, only surfacing at hours I feared were too late to reasonably phone him. That said, I was usually the one to initiate our texting conversations throughout the day, sending him pictures of things that made me think of him or that I thought he might find interesting.

I bit my bottom lip and hesitated before responding, then deleted what I'd written and tried again.

I'm on deadline... Raincheck? I could call you tomorrow.

It wasn't necessarily a lie. I was on deadline... though admittedly I had already submitted the pieces I needed for submission.

And I could call him tomorrow... just as I could call him tonight if Youssef didn't invite me for a drink after the panel, which I was hoping he would do.

I carefully switched my phone to vibrate and slid it into my back pocket. Audience members began to slowly trickle through the rows of seats until finally every lawn chair had been claimed and the last of the trickle pooled near the back, standing room only.

My phone finally vibrated again just as the panel moderator began her introductions.

Looking forward to it.

* * *

Youssef's jovial features seemed slightly wilted, and I wasn't sure if it was exhaustion from his panel or the chokingly-thick, stuffy air of the pub. Both front and rear doors were propped open and the hinges of the windows unfastened as widely as they could be, but it was no use against the residual heat of the day. The large number of sweating bodies cramming into the small space didn't help matters either.

The beer, at least, was cool as I shamelessly pressed it against my cheek before taking a multi-gulp drink.

Thank god Tom isn't here to see me in such a state.

The thought flittered out of my head as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a foul taste of uneasiness in its wake. I grimaced instinctually.

I still wasn't quite sure why I had done it—why I had lied to Tom. I could have told him I was busy, which was closer to the truth than the excuse I had pathetically offered him. I could have told him the whole truth—that I had happened on one of my favorite writers of all time and was hoping to interview him after an event... that evening... over drinks... just the two of us.

Would Tom have even cared? Maybe.

Maybe he would have been entirely uncomfortable with the idea of me alone in a bar with another man, even if it was completely professional. Maybe he would have flown into a rage, texted me incessantly, railed at me for being a smutty floozy, called me a whore, and demanded I abandon my plans, maybe even return to London.

Or maybe he wouldn't care in the slightest.

Maybe he couldn't even muster a reaction for such an utter lack of a care to give. Perhaps in his eyes, we weren't anything—maybe I wasn't anything other than a date for a charity event, a hookup and a good time. Maybe he was relieved I told him I couldn't talk on the phone because maybe he had more exciting plans with more exciting people, more exciting dates.

I realized then why I had lied—either way Tom might have reacted, I hadn't wanted to find out.

"So you dreamed of being a writer?"

Youssef's voice pulled me from my tortuous introspection.

"Huh?" I intelligently asked, my mind racing to catch up with what he had said.

His tired smile widened slightly. "You appeared to be somewhere else, writing perhaps."

I forced a laugh. "I would need sticky notes for that."

"But it was your dream, to be a writer."

I met his intent stare and knew he would not let me sidestep his questions as he had earlier that afternoon.

Still, I stubbornly offered him a non-answer. "You're worse than a journalist with a scoop."

He sat up slightly. "So I have a scoop?"

I shook my head and then lifted the cool rim of my glass to my lips.

I could feel his eyes observing, but I refused to meet them.

"Who told you your writing was bad?" He demanded, awfully indignant—in my opinion—for never having read any of my work.

"I grew out of it—like most people do when they grow up," I attempted to shrug nonchalantly, not at all pulling it off.

"Who told you?" Youssef persisted.

"I did." I stared him straight in the eyes and then nodded once. "I did."

"But why—"

"Because it was! Because it wasn't good enough!"

"Good enough for..."

My heart constricted painfully and I shook my head, easily swatting away the memories of the truth. "For the bills."

"Well," Youssef said before taking a long drink. "You should have become an economic migrant, like me."

I laughed darkly and drained my glass, grateful Youssef had somehow known not to push me any farther.

"That's what they're calling us these days anyway."

"What's it like? Home?"

He hesitated before answering me. "Hot but dry—not like any of this nonsense," he said with a wave of his hand. "My family is still all there, so it is loud with laughter and yelling... but there is still the sound of shelling sometimes, too."

He cleared his throat and continued with a determined zeal. "There are actual spices in the food, and the smell of the spices—it sort of hangs in the air, so I'm always hungry when I go back."

"Do you go back?"

"Sometimes. My new visa allows it, but not everyone back home is as big of a fan of my work as you are—the government certainly isn't, so I don't go back as much as before."

Youssef glanced up at me through his thick eyelashes. "Is this all on the record?"

"Technically," I shrugged, "but not if you don't want it to be."

He hesitated, before admitting, his carefully chosen words barely audible over the din of the crowded bar: "I miss my family... I would like to be able to go back."

I nodded in understanding. "Then we're just two acquaintances reminiscing over drinks."

"Two friends," he corrected as he lifted his glass.

I smiled widely as I clinked my glass with his.