I arrived before my friends this time. I could have stayed in the car a few extra minutes, or scrolled through my phone until they came, but I preferred to sit early in the diwaniya where we usually meet to watch the World Cup matches. I chose a table overlooking most of the place, ordered a cup of coffee, and let my eyes wander among the faces and tables.

The place was filling up slowly, as the evening fills with calm before the stands ignite on the screens. The smell of coffee blended with the scent of mint tea, and laughter intersected with the commentator's voice as he rehearsed his tone before the match began. Many faces passed before me: dark and white faces, Arab, Asian, and African faces, faces carved by years with wrinkles, and others still retaining youthful features. Ages, colors, and dialects differed, but everyone seemed to have come with an appointment they were waiting for, or a small joy they hoped to share with others.

To my left sat three men past sixty. The match had not yet started, yet they were talking enthusiastically about matches that took place more than forty years ago. One was recounting how he used to sneak out of the house to watch a final match at the neighbors' because televisions were not available in every home. The second interrupted him, laughing, insisting that an old Brazilian player was better than all the stars of this era. Meanwhile, the third just smiled and sipped his tea, occasionally making a short comment that made everyone laugh. It seemed to me that for them, football was no longer just a game, but a box preserving the memories of youth, and the names of friends scattered by life's burdens or lost to the years.

At the opposite table, four young men who looked like university students were sitting. Their phones never left their hands, but their conversations were warmer than their screens. One was complaining about his graduation project, another reassured him that the supervisor was not as difficult as he imagined, and a third asked about a postponed exam. Then suddenly all the talk turned to match predictions, and they argued about the expected result as if the fate of the world would be decided in ninety minutes. I smiled, thinking that no matter how crowded one's days become, a person sometimes needs two hours to forget exams, projects, and everything waiting for them tomorrow.

Not far from them, there was a table gathering five young men wearing similar sports jerseys. The traces of fatigue were still clear on their faces, and their sports shoes, stained with field dust, confirmed they had come straight from training. They were talking loudly, exchanging jokes and funny accusations about who missed an easy chance and who caused their team's last match loss. Amid their successive laughter, it seemed to me that training was over, but their companionship was not yet finished, and that the most beautiful thing about sports is not what happens on the field, but what remains off it: camaraderie and familiarity.

As for the table closest to me, it was the most thought-provoking. Around it sat a number of students from the Islamic University, brought together by multiple dialects and features coming from different continents. One was from Nigeria, another from Indonesia, a third from Turkey, and a fourth from a Central Asian country. They spoke Arabic with varying accents, exchanged jokes with endearing innocence, and then argued about which team they would support in the tournament. Yet it was clear that the difference in the flags they belonged to was not able to spoil the warmth of their gathering. Their studies had brought them to one city, coffee had gathered them, and a simple desire united them: that none of them spend their evening feeling like a stranger.

Perhaps Abu Hayyan al-Tawhidi best described such gatherings when he said: 'Conversation sharpens the mind, relieves the heart, dispels worry, and refines manners.' What was happening around those tables was not just casual talk, but an ancient human attempt to resist loneliness and regain some tranquility in the company of others.

Among all these tables, I was sipping my coffee slowly, waiting for my friends who were a bit late. And I realized that a person does not always need deep conversations or exceptional occasions to feel happy. Sometimes it is enough to sit among faces you do not know, but you feel they resemble you in something: in their need to laugh, in their fear of loneliness, and in their simple desire for the day to end with a cheerful voice, a cup of coffee, a beautiful match, and small memories that can still warm the heart when days grow cold.

While I was watching a replay on the screen, I heard a voice I know well:

'—Looks like we were late.'

I turned, and there my friends had finally arrived. Each sat in his usual seat, and the table filled with cups, questions, and laughter that needed no introductions.

The starting whistle blew, and voices rose in the diwaniya, but I was thinking of something else: that the tournament will pass, the flags will be folded, and these tables will return to their usual evenings. But one thing will remain as it is: that small longing that drives people to leave their homes at the end of the day, not just for the love of coffee, nor only for a passion for football, but for the desire to find a face that smiles at them, a seat that awaits them, and a passing conversation that lightens the weight of the days.

Perhaps the coffee was transient, and the matches were transient, and even the tournaments were transient. But companionship and familiarity are among the few things worth returning to time after time.