She reaches out and pats me on the face.

“You don’t have to say anything. You just have to shut up and listen more often.”

Amina’s family lives in the quiet Queen Village neighborhood of Philadelphia, where smattered among the charming row houses you can spot the occasional mansion tucked away in the brick. I’ve strolled by her home what feels like dozens of times, walking her there from class or after we’ve gone out, coming back from the movies or rummaging for used books in Giovanni’s Room, my favorite bookshop-slash-nonprofit thrift store.

I look up at her house, dark copper stars hammered into the front, like most older Philly homes. It’s a wide row house, a dark red brick that casts a strong contrast to the lighter brick houses attached to it, with dark green shutters on the windows and a bright yellow door. They’re empty now, but over the summer, the window boxes on the bottom two windows overflowed with bright wildflowers. It’s how we started talking, even after years of being in school together, after she saw me leaving comments on her Instagram photos of them. I keep trying to think of a more romantic story for how we met but haven’t quite come up with anything yet.

I know there’s a yard. The house has a thin iron gate off to the side, in a rounded arch that breaks the seam between her house and her neighbors’. I can always make out a spot of green beyond the brick walled alley. But what it looks like inside the house? With her family? No idea.

I take a step up on the stoop and ring the doorbell, a soft chime echoing from someplace inside. That’s when I notice all the voices talking inside, blending together as footsteps sound off, making their way to the door.

It swings open, and there’s Amina. She smiles.

“There you are,” she says, motioning for me to come in. I lean in for a kiss and she backs away quickly, looking into her house and then back at me. “The hell are you doing? None of that. No way. Get in here.”

I walk in, and the home is an explosion of color. Deep reds and golds are everywhere, and the air is heavy with delicious smells. Her family has furniture that doesn’t look like it’s been put together hastily after an Ikea visit, the “extra pieces” buried in a kitchen drawer.

“I thought you told them about me?” I ask as Amina hurries ahead of me, leading the way. Toward the back of the house is what looks like the kitchen, with a big sprawling table topped with piles of food.

“I did. Not everyone can make out in front of their family.”