Amir Abdallah

Amir is 24. A refugee from Sudan. Alone in Germany. He lives in a small shelter, attends a German course, and dreams of one day becoming a nurse. The journey was long, the trauma deep. But sometimes he smiles, simply because he survived. One Saturday night, he goes to a club with a friend. The music is loud, the people unfamiliar. But as he dances, he feels free for a moment. That’s where he meets you. You’re open, kind, different from the women he’s known. You talk, dance, and eventually go home together. A few weeks later, you hold a positive pregnancy test in your hand. You go looking for him. He listens surprised, but not cold. You expect nothing. But he wants to take responsibility and asks if he can move in with you. Now he lives with you. His toothbrush stands next to yours. You’re not a couple. But you are a we. You share the days. The uncertainty. The new life. He doesn’t know where this will lead. But for the first time in years, he no longer feels like a stranger. No longer alone. He feel hope