Part 1:

The first time she knocked on my door, it sounded like the start of a war.

It was the kind of knock that carried attitude—not a polite tap, not a neighborly gesture. No, this one was all business. Irritation dripped from every echo that followed through the hallway. I froze mid-guitar strum, the last chord humming through my small apartment, vibrating the cheap walls.

Three seconds later, the knock came again. Harder. Sharper.

“Alright, alright,” I muttered, setting my guitar down on the couch. “I’m coming.”

When I opened the door, there she was—arms crossed, hair tied up in a messy bun, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall.
She looked ready to fight.

“You realize your music shakes the entire wall, right?” she said flatly.

Her voice was calm, but her tone sure as hell wasn’t.

For a second, I forgot how to speak. I think it was because she looked… unexpected. Not what I’d imagined when I moved into this complex last month. My last neighbor had been a seventy-year-old man who smelled like peppermints and old coffee. This one looked like she had caffeine for blood and zero patience for nonsense.

I blinked. “Uh—good morning?”

She didn’t smile. “It’s nine in the morning, not a concert.”

“Fair point.” I leaned against the doorframe, pretending to think. “But in my defense, it’s also not midnight.”

Her jaw tightened. “I work from home. That means I have to listen to your rock star ambitions every day.”

There it was—the word ambitions like it was something she could crush under her heel.

“I could always play softer,” I said, half-smirking, “but you could also… buy better headphones.”

The look she gave me could’ve set the hallway on fire.

For a moment, I almost smiled. She was furious—gloriously so—and somehow, I liked it. Maybe it was the spark in her eyes, maybe the way she didn’t back down. Most people either apologized or avoided me after one conversation. Not her. She stood there like she’d rather wrestle a hurricane than let me win this argument.

“I’m not the one disturbing half the building,” she snapped.

“Technically,” I said, “the lease says quiet hours start at ten p.m. We’re good.”

Her lips pressed into a tight line. “You’re impossible.”

“Thanks. I get that a lot.”

She huffed and turned on her heel, muttering something under her breath about “inconsiderate musicians.” The faint scent of vanilla and rain trailed after her. I watched her walk away, not because I wanted to be annoying—but because I couldn’t help it. She had this stride that said don’t mess with me, but her hands trembled slightly when she reached for her keys.

When her door closed, the silence that followed didn’t feel peaceful.
It felt empty.

That night, I played again—quieter this time. Not because I cared about her complaint, of course. It was… a conscious decision based on respecting communal living.
Or so I told myself.

Truth was, every time I paused, I half-expected another knock.
But it didn’t come.

I stared at the wall between our apartments, fingers still on the strings.
It was ridiculous. Why did it feel like I missed the sound of her voice already?

The next morning, the war resumed.

Same knock. Same tone. Same girl—though this time, she held something in her hand. A crumpled takeout receipt.

“You dropped this under my door,” she said.

I glanced at it. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t even from a place I ordered from. But she stood there waiting, like it was some kind of peace offering—or evidence in a court case.

“Do you always show up this early just to scold people?” I asked.

“Do you always enjoy being annoying?” she shot back.

Touché.

Her eyes flickered—just for a second—with something that wasn’t pure anger. Maybe surprise. Maybe curiosity. It was hard to tell.

I shrugged. “You could’ve just thrown it away.”

“I could’ve,” she said, crossing her arms, “but then I’d miss my favorite morning argument.”

That did it. I laughed, quiet but genuine. “Wow. You admit it—you like me.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s not what I said.”

“Close enough.”

For the first time, her expression cracked. The corner of her lips twitched upward—barely—but it was there. Then she caught herself and looked away.

“Just keep the volume down,” she said, turning toward her apartment. “And maybe we’ll survive as neighbors.”

I leaned against my doorframe again. “Deal. But only if you stop glaring at me every time you pass by.”

She glanced back, brow raised. “We’ll see.”

That tiny smile almost made the whole noise complaint worth it.

Days passed in a strange rhythm.
Quieter guitar sessions.
Accidental hallway encounters.
A few awkward nods that almost felt like peace treaties.

I learned her name by accident—Lila Morgan—from a package left outside her door. She worked in publishing, apparently, judging from the stack of manuscripts I saw once when she left her door cracked open. She liked her coffee with cinnamon. She always wore her hair up when she was stressed and down when she didn’t care.

I shouldn’t have noticed those things.
But I did.

And then came the blackout.

It was a Friday night when the entire building went dark. The hum of my fridge stopped, the AC went silent, and somewhere down the hall someone cursed loudly.

I sat by my window, guitar in hand, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. The silence felt thicker than usual, like the whole world had decided to hold its breath.

Then came her voice from the hallway.
“Great. Just great. You wouldn’t happen to have a flashlight, would you?”

I stepped out, holding a candle I’d just lit. The soft glow spilled across the hall, catching her face as she stood there barefoot in an oversized hoodie. Her hair was messy, her frustration almost adorable.

“Guess you’ll have to settle for candlelight,” I said.

She sighed, half amused, half exasperated. “Figures. Of course you’d make this dramatic.”

“You complaining or complimenting?”

“Still deciding.”

We ended up sitting by my doorway, the candle flickering between us. The walls that once divided us now glowed softly, shadows dancing around her face. She laughed for the first time—not the forced kind, but the real one. Low, warm, and unguarded.

“You’re not that bad,” she said finally. “For a noise hazard.”

“High praise,” I said. “Coming from the building’s complaint department.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

But her tone had softened, and that alone felt like victory.

We sat there until the candle burned halfway down, talking about nothing—neighbors, bad landlords, why the elevator still smelled like burnt popcorn. And somewhere between her laughter and my teasing, the silence between us shifted.

It didn’t feel like distance anymore.
It felt like tension waiting to break.

The next morning, I opened my door to the smell of cinnamon coffee.

She stood there again, wearing an oversized sweater, hair in a loose bun, holding a mug. The same guarded look was back, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time.

“You’re staring,” she said flatly.

“Just wondering if you ever sleep.”

“Some of us have jobs,” she said, sipping. The faintest smile tugged at her lips. “You should try it sometime.”

I grinned. “Music is my job.”

“Then you need better hours.”

Before I could reply, she turned back toward her door.
“See you around, rock star.”

“Careful,” I called after her. “Keep calling me that and I’ll think you like me.”

Her laugh echoed faintly through the hallway before her door closed.

By noon, another knock.

This time it was softer, like she wasn’t trying to wake the dead.

When I opened it, she held a small cardboard box.
“Maintenance left this at my door. It’s yours.”

I took it, and for a second, our fingers brushed. It was a stupid, fleeting thing—but it felt like static electricity shot straight to my chest.

“Thanks,” I said.

She nodded, quickly stepping back. “Try not to drop your stuff under my door again.”

“Wasn’t my plan,” I said.

“Good,” she said, but her cheeks had flushed pink. “Don’t make me start charging a delivery fee.”

“Guess I’ll just have to find another excuse to see you, then.”

Her eyes darted up, meeting mine for half a second before she looked away.

“Good luck with that,” she said, voice softer this time. Then she turned and disappeared behind her door.

That evening, I found a note slipped under mine.

Your guitar actually sounded nice tonight. Don’t let it get to your head.

Her handwriting was sharp and elegant, exactly how I imagined her—controlled, precise, just messy enough to be human.

I read it twice. Then three more times.
And for the first time since moving here, I smiled without realizing it.

That night, when I picked up my guitar again, the notes came easier.
Softer.
Warmer.

I told myself it wasn’t for her.

But when I paused, waiting for that next knock that never came,
I knew it probably was.

 

Part 2: 

The next few days settled into something I couldn’t name.

It wasn’t peace.
It wasn’t friendship either.
It was somewhere in between—a quiet truce held together by sarcasm and guitar strings.

Every morning, Lila passed my door at exactly 8:42 a.m., coffee in hand, phone pressed to her ear, voice sharp as always. I could tell when her day was bad because her bun got tighter, her steps faster. And every time she walked by, I pretended not to listen to the rhythm of her heels on the floor.

By day four, we’d fallen into a strange pattern:
Her complaints came in notes.
My responses did too.

It started small.

Her note: “You were flat on the second verse.”
Mine: “That’s just my charm.”
Her reply: “Your charm is off-key.”

She slipped them under my door every evening, like clockwork. I started keeping them in a drawer, folded neatly next to my guitar picks. I told myself it was for the laughs—but deep down, I knew better.

By the time her seventh note came, her handwriting had changed. It wasn’t sharp anymore. It had softened, like she’d written it in a rush, maybe smiling while she did.

“The new song was… nice. I almost didn’t hate it.”

Almost.
That one word was enough to keep me up until 3 a.m. with my guitar.

The following week, the building felt quieter than usual. I hadn’t seen Lila in two days—not in the hall, not at the mailboxes, not through the crack under her door when the light usually glowed late at night. It was ridiculous how aware I’d become of her absence. My music felt heavier. The silence pressed too hard.

By the third day, I gave in and knocked.

No answer.

I was halfway down the hall when her door opened behind me.

She stood there, bleary-eyed, hair tangled, wearing a loose sweatshirt that swallowed her frame. “You’re persistent,” she said, voice rough from sleep.

“You look terrible,” I said automatically.

“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You really know how to charm a woman.”

I grinned. “I meant… in a cute, exhausted, overworked kind of way.”

“Save it,” she said, rubbing her temple. “I’ve had deadlines all week.”

I hesitated. “You haven’t been sleeping, huh?”

“Barely. Coffee’s my blood type now.”

“Then you need a break,” I said. “Come over later. I’ll play something that doesn’t give you a headache.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You mean like silence?”

“Exactly,” I said. “A very musical kind of silence.”

She almost smiled, but caught herself. “Fine,” she muttered. “But only for ten minutes.”

She didn’t make it ten.

That evening, she sat cross-legged on my couch, nursing a mug of tea I’d made—cinnamon, because of course it was. She wore glasses this time, and I swear they made her look softer. Less sharp. More real.

“So this is where all the noise comes from,” she said, glancing around. “I expected… more chaos.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “I cleaned up for the occasion.”

“You mean for your victim.”

“Same thing.”

She laughed under her breath, the sound small but genuine. “You’re impossible.”

“You keep saying that,” I said, tuning my guitar. “I’m starting to think it’s your version of a compliment.”

“Don’t push it,” she warned, though her tone lacked conviction.

I started playing something slow—nothing flashy, just soft chords that filled the room without demanding space. She leaned back, eyes half closed, fingers tracing the rim of her cup.

When I finished, she didn’t speak right away.
Then, quietly: “You play differently when you think no one’s listening.”

I looked up. “How do you know that?”

She met my eyes. “Because that didn’t sound like someone trying to impress. That sounded like someone trying to feel.”

Her words hit harder than I expected. I set the guitar down, heart thudding like I’d been caught confessing something without realizing it.

“Maybe,” I said slowly, “that’s because you’re the first person who actually listens.”

The air between us shifted. She blinked, like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard me right. Then she smiled faintly—small, hesitant, but warm.

“Careful,” she said. “You might make me like living next door.”

“Guess I’m doing my job then.”

She rolled her eyes, but the tension was gone.
When she finally left that night, she paused at the door. “Hey,” she said, turning slightly. “The song was beautiful.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

From that night on, we stopped pretending to hate each other.

Her knocks got softer.
My music got quieter.
The space between our doors grew smaller.

Sometimes, she’d leave a note. Sometimes, I’d respond. And sometimes, we didn’t need to write anything at all.

One evening, the power went out again. I didn’t wait for her this time.
I lit a candle, grabbed two mugs, and knocked.

When she opened the door, she was already holding her own candle, flame flickering near her face. The light caught her eyes just right—brown with a hint of amber, like sunlight through whiskey.

“Twice in one month,” I said. “You think the universe is trying to tell us something?”

“Yeah,” she said. “That you attract bad luck.”

“Maybe you do,” I said. “It just follows me home.”

She sighed but smiled despite herself. “Come in before the candles go out.”

I did.
Her apartment was smaller than mine but somehow felt warmer. Books stacked on every surface, half-burned candles scattered across shelves, and a faint smell of lavender mixed with rain. She moved like someone used to being alone—efficient, careful, quietly self-contained.

We sat on the floor again, candles flickering between us.

“So,” she said, “you always rescue neighbors during blackouts, or just the ones who yell at you?”

“Just the cute ones.”

She groaned. “You can’t turn it off, can you?”

“Not when it works.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re smiling,” I pointed out.

“I’m regretting it already,” she said—but her smile didn’t fade.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… comfortable. The kind that makes you forget how long it’s been since you last felt at ease.

I don’t know who leaned closer first, but suddenly her face was just inches away. The candlelight painted her skin gold, her eyes soft and searching.

“You live alone, right?” I asked quietly.

She hesitated, then nodded. “It’s quieter that way.”

“Do you like quiet?”

She looked at me for a long second before answering. “Sometimes. But lately… I don’t mind the noise.”

My chest tightened. “That’s good. Because I’m terrible at shutting up.”

She smiled. “I’ve noticed.”

We talked until the candles melted low, until the world outside felt like it belonged to someone else. When the power flickered back on, we didn’t move right away. Her eyes met mine, the light catching a thousand things neither of us said.

“I should go,” she whispered finally.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Probably.”

But neither of us did for another thirty seconds.

When she finally stood, she looked back once before closing her door.
That small glance burned itself into my mind.

From then on, the building had a heartbeat—and it was ours.

Every morning, she’d appear with coffee in hand. Sometimes she’d knock, sometimes she’d just leave a note. I started timing my breaks to match hers. She started humming along to my songs, loud enough for me to hear through the wall.

Once, she left a note that simply said:

“You make the silence worse when you stop playing.”

That one stayed taped to my mirror for weeks.

One rainy afternoon, I caught her in the hallway, juggling groceries and keys while her phone rang. The bags slipped, apples rolling across the floor.

“Don’t say a word,” she warned.

I crouched beside her anyway. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Our hands brushed over the same apple. She froze.
So did I.

Her breath caught—the smallest sound, but enough to make the air change.

“You really don’t know boundaries, do you?” she whispered.

“Guess I never learned them.”

Her eyes met mine, soft but guarded, like she was standing at the edge of something she wasn’t ready to name. I wanted to say something, anything—but the moment passed when her phone buzzed again, breaking whatever spell had held us there.

“Thanks,” she said quickly, standing. “I’ve got it.”

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound normal. “Anytime you need a fruit-saving hero.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were pink.
She walked away, but that small blush stayed in my mind all night.

That evening, another note slid under my door.

“Stop being nice. It’s confusing.”

I stared at it for a long time, then wrote back:

“You could stop noticing.”

Her reply came ten minutes later.

“I’ve tried.”

And just like that, the game changed.

The next morning, she showed up with two mugs.
“Coffee?” she said, pretending it was nothing.

“You bribing me now?” I asked, taking one.

“Call it neighborly peace.”

“Truce accepted,” I said.

She stepped inside, uninvited but not unwelcome. The air between us felt charged—not awkward, not easy, just… alive. She sat on my couch again, curling her legs under her, looking around like she’d been there a hundred times.

“Your place is quieter than I expected,” she said.

“That’s because you’re not yelling at me.”

She smirked. “Not yet.”

We talked for hours. About music, about her job, about how she hated the word deadline more than any curse word. She told me she’d moved to Chicago after her mom got sick back home in Oregon. I told her about the bar gigs I used to play, about how I’d stopped when life stopped feeling steady enough to sing about.

“Why’d you quit?” she asked softly.

“Because the music stopped feeling like mine,” I said.

Her expression softened. “Maybe you just needed someone to listen again.”

I didn’t answer, but something in me shifted.
Maybe she was right.

That night, I played again. Not for practice, not for escape—just for her.

The melody was slow, warm, filled with every unspoken thing between us.
When it ended, the silence hummed.

Then I heard it—her voice, soft through the wall.

“Again.”

So I did.

Until my fingers ached and my heart felt full in a way it hadn’t in years.

When I finally stopped, I waited for her note. It didn’t come.

Instead, there was a knock.

Late.
Hesitant.
Her silhouette glowed faintly under the hallway light.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked when I opened the door.

“You blaming me again?” she said, but there was a smile hiding in her voice.

“This time, yeah.”

She sighed, stepping inside without waiting for permission.
She sat on the floor, candlelight catching her face as I lit the same one from before.

“You play differently now,” she said quietly.

“Maybe you’re just listening differently.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t answer.

She stared at the flame, voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know why I keep ending up here.”

“Maybe you do,” I said softly.

Her eyes lifted to mine. The flame flickered between us, small but steady.

She looked at me like she finally realized what she’d been fighting wasn’t noise at all.
It was me.

And for the first time, she didn’t turn away.

Part 3:

The next few days felt suspended — like the world between our doors existed on its own timeline.

We didn’t talk about that night.
We didn’t have to.

Something had changed.
It hung in the air like the scent of rain before a storm.

I still played my guitar, but quieter now — not out of habit, but because I knew she was listening. Every chord was for her, even if I told myself it wasn’t.

She still left notes sometimes, but they’d shifted too.

“You’re getting better at the soft stuff.”

“Stop smiling when I pass you. It’s distracting.”

“The last song… it felt personal. Was it?”

I never answered that last one.
Maybe because she already knew.

One night, thunder rolled through the city, deep and heavy. The rain came down in sheets, hammering the windows. I was sitting by the window, guitar on my lap, when I heard it — her door opening, followed by a familiar voice.

“Power’s out again,” she called, half amused, half annoyed. “You seem to attract bad luck.”

“Or maybe it’s just you showing up that causes it,” I said, already standing with the candle in hand.

She stood there, barefoot, hair damp from the rain, hoodie clinging to her shoulders.
“You’re soaked,” I said. “You walked here in that?”

She shrugged. “Elevator’s out. Stairs were a river.”

I motioned her in. “Tragic. Guess you’ll have to survive human company again.”

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered, stepping inside.

We sat across from each other on the floor again, the candle flickering between us like some small, defiant flame that refused to go out no matter how dark it got outside.

Her gaze wandered — over the guitar leaning by the couch, the stacks of music sheets, the quiet hum of the city beyond the rain.

“You live alone, right?” she asked after a while.

“Yeah. I used to have a roommate, but he moved out when I couldn’t stop playing at 2 a.m.”

“Can’t blame him.”

“Thanks for the support,” I said dryly.

She smiled. “You don’t need it. You like being alone.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But sometimes it gets loud up here.” I tapped my temple.

Her expression softened. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know what that’s like.”

The silence stretched. The rain softened outside, and her fingers traced the edge of her cup, slow and nervous.

“I heard you crying the other night,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“Through the wall. I didn’t mean to listen. It just… happened.”

Her shoulders tensed, but she didn’t look angry. Just… exposed. “Rough week,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “My mom’s sick. Back in Oregon. I’ve been trying to juggle work and everything else, but…” Her voice broke a little. “It’s been a lot.”

I nodded slowly. “You could’ve told me.”

“Why would I?” she said, forcing a brittle laugh. “We barely know each other.”

“Maybe,” I said softly, “but sometimes strangers listen better than friends.”

She looked at me for a long time — searching my face like she was trying to find the lie.
Then, quietly, “You really think you know me, huh?”

“I think I want to,” I said.

Her eyes glistened. She blinked fast, looked away, but not before I saw it — the tears she was too proud to let fall. I reached out without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

She froze.

“You shouldn’t—” she started, voice trembling.

“I know,” I said. “But I want to.”

And that was it. The line between us vanished, not with a kiss, not yet — but with her leaning forward until her forehead rested against my shoulder. Her breath hitched, shaky and uneven.

We stayed like that, no words, just warmth and quiet.

After a long while, she whispered, “I hate when you make it easy to breathe.”

“Then keep hating me,” I said gently. “But don’t shut me out.”

She lifted her head, eyes wet but fierce. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Maybe I do.”

Her hand brushed mine, fingers trembling, but she didn’t pull away this time. The candle between us flickered once, like it was holding its breath too.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered again.

“I know,” I said.

Her breath came faster now. The silence grew heavy.
And then she whispered, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You’re not,” I said.

That broke her. The tension slipped from her shoulders, and she leaned into me again, softer this time. We stayed that way until the candle burned low and the rain faded to a whisper.

When she finally looked up, her eyes searched mine — tired, raw, but full of something real.
“You’re trouble,” she murmured.

“Probably,” I said. “But I’m your kind.”

And she smiled — the kind of smile that feels like surrender.

The morning after, the sunlight crept through the blinds, painting gold across her couch. She stirred beside me, blinking like she’d just remembered where she was. Her hair was a mess, her sweater wrinkled, but she’d never looked more beautiful.

“You stayed,” she said quietly.

“You asked me to.”

She smiled faintly, then frowned, like she didn’t mean to. “I didn’t mean for you to actually listen.”

“Guess you’ll have to be clearer next time.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed. “You’re too comfortable here.”

“Should I leave?”

She hesitated. “Eventually.”

“Define eventually.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

I grinned. “You keep saying that, but you don’t sound convinced anymore.”

She didn’t answer. Just reached for her coffee and sipped quietly.
The silence between us wasn’t tense anymore. It felt steady. Familiar. Dangerous.

Days passed, and with every one, the walls between us felt thinner.

Sometimes, she’d wander into my apartment without knocking. Sometimes, she’d sit at the edge of my couch and read while I played. Once, she fell asleep there, book still open on her lap.

I didn’t wake her. I just played softer, watching how her lips parted slightly when she dreamed.

We didn’t label it. Didn’t talk about it.
But it lived in the air — in every shared coffee, every quiet laugh, every touch that lasted a heartbeat too long.

Then one evening, she knocked again, holding a takeout bag.

“Truce dinner,” she said. “You owe me noodles.”

I raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For keeping me up with your late-night music.”

“I thought you liked my music.”

“I said it sounded nice. I didn’t say I wanted a live concert.”

I smiled. “Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

She rolled her eyes and walked past me like she owned the place.
We ate on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, the TV playing something neither of us watched. She laughed mid-bite, noodles dangling, and it was ridiculous how good it felt to hear it.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“You make it easy.”

She shook her head, trying to hide her smile. “You really don’t filter anything you say, do you?”

“Not with you.”

Her eyes flickered, uncertain. Then she looked down at her food, quiet for a beat.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because I might believe them.”

The words hung between us like static. I could feel her pulse shift, her breath quicken just slightly. My hand was close to hers, close enough to feel the warmth radiating between us.

“Do you want to?” I asked.

Her eyes lifted, meeting mine. “Want to what?”

“Believe me.”

She exhaled slowly. “You make everything complicated.”

“I think you like complicated.”

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but didn’t.

The space between us disappeared inch by inch.
I could smell her perfume — something faint, floral, and maddeningly familiar.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered.

“Probably,” I said. “Do you want me to stop?”

She didn’t answer.
And that silence was all the permission I needed.

The kiss wasn’t sudden. It was slow, hesitant, like we both knew we were crossing a line and doing it anyway. Her lips were soft, trembling at first, then sure. She tasted like wine and regret and something that felt dangerously close to home.

When we finally pulled apart, her breath came uneven, her eyes searching mine.

“That didn’t happen,” she said, voice barely steady.

“Then why are you still here?” I asked.

Her laugh was quiet, nervous. “Because leaving would make it real.”

“It already is.”

She looked at me, really looked, and I could see it — the fear, the longing, the surrender.

“You ruin everything,” she said softly. “I was fine before you.”

“No,” I said gently. “You were safe. That’s not the same thing.”

Her lips trembled. Then she kissed me again — this time harder, deeper, like she was trying to erase every reason not to.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against mine.
“You don’t play fair.”

“I told you,” I whispered. “I’m not here to win. I’m here to stay.”

She didn’t reply. Just leaned into me, eyes closed, the quiet between us no longer feeling like silence.

It felt like peace.

The next morning, the city was drenched in sunlight and the smell of coffee.
Lila stood at her counter, oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, hair messy, eyes softer than I’d ever seen.

“You’re still here,” she said when she noticed me.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not used to people staying.”

“Get used to it,” I said.

She smirked, trying to hide her smile. “You really are trouble.”

“Yeah,” I said, walking closer. “But the good kind.”

Her eyes flickered — fear, amusement, something warmer. “You don’t even know what you’re getting into.”

“Maybe I do,” I said. “Maybe that’s the point.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is,” I said. “You feel something. You stop pretending you don’t. That’s it.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then said softly, “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Not on you.”

For the first time, she didn’t fight the words. She just stepped closer, her hand brushing mine. The air between us thickened — not with noise, not with argument, but with something so honest it almost hurt.

“You scare me,” she whispered.

“Good,” I said. “Means it’s real.”

And this time, when she kissed me, it wasn’t hesitant.
It was a confession.

Part 4:

For a while, it was perfect.
Or maybe it only felt that way because we both knew it couldn’t last.

Lila started leaving her door open when she came home—just slightly, enough for me to hear the soft shuffle of her keys or the faint hum of her music while she cooked. It wasn’t an invitation, not really. But it wasn’t rejection either.

I started timing my day around hers without realizing it. Coffee when she brewed hers. Breaks when her voice drifted through the wall. Late-night guitar sessions softer than ever, because I knew she was listening.

We’d become something unspoken. Something fragile.
Something real.

And then one evening, it all cracked.

The storm outside was relentless—rain pounding the windows, wind shaking the balcony railings. I was halfway through tuning my guitar when I heard her voice through the wall. She was on the phone. Her tone was sharp, defensive.

“No, I don’t owe you anything,” she said. “You don’t get to call me now.”

I froze.

She sounded angry, but under it—there was pain. The kind you can’t fake.

“I told you it’s over,” she continued, voice breaking slightly. “You don’t get to do this again.”

I set my guitar down and listened, hating myself for it, but unable to stop.

There was silence. Then a quiet, “Goodbye.”

When she hung up, I didn’t knock. I should’ve. But I didn’t.

That night, her lights stayed off. Her music didn’t play.
And the silence between our walls was unbearable.

The next morning, she acted like nothing happened.

She passed me in the hallway, coffee mug in hand, hair tied up, eyes hidden behind sunglasses even though it was cloudy. “Morning,” she said, voice too casual.

“Morning,” I replied.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t smile. Just kept walking.

Something in me twisted. The distance between us suddenly felt like a mile.

By noon, I cracked. I slipped a note under her door.

“If you need quiet, I’ll stop playing for a while. But if you need noise, you know where to find me.”

Hours passed. No reply.

By midnight, there was finally a sound—her knock.
Soft. Careful.

When I opened the door, she looked exhausted.
Her eyes red, her lips pale.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” she said.

“You didn’t,” I said. “You’re here.”

She hesitated, like she was fighting herself. Then, “My ex called. He’s… persistent.”

“Do I need to be jealous?” I asked, trying to sound lighter than I felt.

She shook her head. “No. Just tired.”

She stepped inside before I could say anything.
She didn’t ask permission this time. She just sat on the couch, pulled her knees up, and rested her head on them.

I sat beside her, close but not too close.
“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” she said. Then, after a pause: “But thanks.”

We sat in silence. The rain outside had slowed to a soft drizzle, tapping the glass gently like it was afraid to interrupt us.

After a while, she looked up. “You always make it sound like everything’s simple.”

“Maybe it is,” I said. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

She laughed softly, without humor. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not,” I said. “But it’s easier when someone’s sitting next to you.”

She looked at me then—really looked. For a moment, she seemed to want to believe it.
Then she whispered, “You shouldn’t care this much.”

“Too late.”

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Instead, she leaned into me, slow and unsure.
I didn’t move. I just let her rest her head against my shoulder.

We stayed like that for a long time—no words, no walls, just breathing the same quiet air.

The next few days blurred into something that felt like peace.

We made breakfast together once, burned the pancakes, and laughed about it for an hour. She started leaving her slippers by my door “by accident.” I started keeping her favorite tea stocked in my kitchen without comment.

Little things.
Things that shouldn’t have meant so much but somehow did.

But underneath it all, there was something restless in her. Something scared. I could feel it in the way her laughter faded too quickly, the way she’d pull back just when things felt easy.

And one night, it all came out.

We were sitting on the couch again, sharing takeout and silence. The TV flickered in the background. I reached out, brushed a bit of rice from her cheek, and she froze.

“What are we doing?” she asked suddenly.

I blinked. “Eating.”

She shook her head. “No. This. Us.”

I set the box down. “We’re figuring it out.”

“You say that like you’re not terrified.”

“I’m not,” I said, but even I could hear the lie.

She leaned forward, eyes sharp now. “You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t normal. We barely know each other.”

“I know enough,” I said quietly.

“No, you don’t. You know the version of me that laughs at your jokes and leaves cute notes under your door. You don’t know the rest.”

“Then tell me.”

She looked down, voice shaking. “The rest isn’t pretty. I’m not easy. I shut down. I walk away when things get real. I ruin good things before they can hurt me.”

I reached for her hand. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep catching you before you walk.”

She laughed softly, but her eyes glistened. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

“Not on things that feel worth it.”

She stared at me like she wanted to believe that too. Then she whispered, “You’ll regret it.”

“Not likely.”

Her breath hitched. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” I said simply. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, I thought she’d cry. Instead, she kissed me—fast, desperate, like she was trying to burn the fear out of herself.

When she pulled away, she whispered, “You make me forget I’m supposed to be alone.”

“Good,” I said. “Because you’re not.”

The next morning, I woke up alone.

The couch was cold, her mug still half full on the table. A note sat beside it.

“You’re too good at making me stay. That scares me.”

No signature. No goodbye.

Just that.

Days passed.
The building felt hollow.
My guitar gathered dust.

Every sound reminded me of her—the coffee maker, the creak of the floor, the faint hum of her old playlist that no longer played through the wall.

I told myself she’d come back. That she just needed space.

But the space she left was too big to ignore.

Then, one night, I heard it—the faint knock I’d been waiting for.

When I opened the door, she stood there, soaked from the rain, trembling slightly. Her eyes were red, mascara streaked. She looked like every emotion she’d tried to bury had finally caught up to her.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

My chest sank. “Do what?”

“Pretend I don’t care.”

She stepped closer, voice breaking. “I tried. I really did. But every time I hear silence through the wall, it feels wrong.”

I exhaled, relief flooding through me like oxygen. “Then don’t.”

Her eyes searched mine, desperate and afraid. “I’m scared, Matt.”

“Me too.”

She laughed weakly, tears mixing with rain. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”

“I told you,” I said, smiling faintly. “I don’t play fair.”

That made her laugh through her tears. Then she threw her arms around me, holding on like the world was ending.

I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close, feeling her heartbeat crash against mine. “You don’t have to run,” I whispered.

“I might still,” she said against my shoulder.

“Then I’ll find you.”

She laughed softly, shaky and wet, the kind of laugh that sounds like surrender.

From that night on, everything was different.

She stopped leaving her door open halfway — she left it wide.
I stopped pretending my songs weren’t about her.

We spent mornings tangled in conversation and coffee steam, afternoons with her reading on my couch while I worked on melodies I’d never finish because she kept distracting me by existing.

We fought sometimes. About stupid things—dirty dishes, whose turn it was to buy milk, who took up more of the bed. But even the arguments felt alive. Because underneath them, there was something solid. Something neither of us wanted to lose.

One night, she said it. Not the full thing, not yet—but close enough.

“I don’t hate you anymore,” she said, half teasing.

“Progress,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

She smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

But her eyes said everything her mouth wouldn’t.

Still, I knew it couldn’t stay that easy forever.
The quiet before storms never does.

It started with a call. Her phone buzzed while she was cooking, number flashing across the screen. She froze when she saw it.

“Who is it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. Just silenced the call and muttered, “No one.”

But the look on her face told me it wasn’t no one. It was him.

Her ex.

I tried to ignore it, to trust her. But trust is harder when ghosts keep knocking.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard her pacing next door, her footsteps restless. Then silence. Then—her door opening, quietly, like she didn’t want to wake me.

I didn’t stop her.
Maybe I should have.

The next morning, she was gone.

No note this time.
No text.
Just silence.

And for the first time since moving into that apartment, I hated the quiet.

Three days later, she came back.

I was on my balcony when I saw her car pull in. She stepped out, sunglasses on, face unreadable. I waited at my door, unsure whether to open it or hide behind it.

Then came the knock — softer than before, but familiar.

When I opened the door, she looked tired, but calmer.
“Hey,” she said quietly.

“Hey.”

She hesitated, then held out a takeout bag. “Truce dinner?”

“Truce for what?”

“For disappearing.”

I exhaled slowly. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But I want to give you one.”

She stepped inside. The smell of rain followed her. She set the food on the counter, then turned to face me.

“I saw him,” she said.

My stomach dropped. “Your ex?”

She nodded. “He showed up at my office. Said he wanted closure. I thought… maybe if I talked to him, I could finally move on.”

“Did you?”

She looked at me, eyes glassy. “Yeah. Because I realized something halfway through his apology.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t angry anymore. I just wanted to go home.” She paused. “And when I thought about home, I thought about… here.”

I froze.

“Matt,” she said softly, “this… us… scares me. But it’s the only thing that’s felt real in a long time.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes.

“You think this is real?” I asked.

“I don’t think,” she said. “I feel it.”

And then she kissed me — slow this time, steady, full of everything she hadn’t said.

That night, when the storm came again, she didn’t leave.

We sat by the window, wrapped in a blanket, watching lightning paint the city in silver flashes. She rested her head on my shoulder, eyes half closed.

“You know,” she murmured, “I used to hate living here.”

“And now?”

She smiled faintly. “Now it feels different.”

“Because of me?” I teased.

She looked up, smirking. “Because of us.”

And that was the first time she said us without flinching.

Part 5: 

It was almost funny how something that started with a knock could change everything.

Lila and I had found a rhythm that felt dangerously like happiness — breakfasts that bled into late mornings, quiet afternoons where I played and she edited manuscripts beside me, nights where we traded sarcasm for half-whispered confessions.

The walls that once divided us had turned into something else entirely.
Not barriers. Not boundaries.
Just reminders of how far we’d come.

But like every rhythm, ours was about to change tempo.

The first sign came one morning when I woke up to find her sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at her phone like it had betrayed her.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

She didn’t look up. “My mom’s in the hospital again. They think it’s serious this time.”

The words landed heavy. I crossed the room, placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do you need to go home?”

“I can’t,” she said, voice trembling. “I have deadlines, rent, clients—”

“Lila,” I said softly, “screw deadlines. Go.”

Her lips pressed together, like she wanted to argue but couldn’t. Finally, she whispered, “What if I go and she…” She couldn’t finish.

I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her. “Then you’ll be where you need to be.”

She clung to me like she was trying not to break. “You make everything sound simple.”

“It’s not,” I said. “It’s just right.”

She flew out the next day.
Her goodbye was quiet — a soft kiss, a too-long hug, and a whispered, “Don’t forget me.”

“Not possible,” I said.

And then she was gone.

The apartment felt hollow without her.

No cinnamon coffee scent in the mornings.
No quiet laughter slipping through the walls.
No soft knock just before midnight when she’d pretend to need sugar but really just wanted company.

Days passed in slow motion. I tried to write, to play, to do anything, but everything came out sounding like her name. I left my door open, just a crack — out of habit, out of hope.

Every sound in the building tricked me into thinking she was back.

But she wasn’t.

Three weeks later, I got her postcard.

It was simple — a photo of Oregon’s coastline, gray waves crashing under a pale sky. The handwriting was hers, sharp and neat as always.

“Mom’s stable. Doctors are hopeful.
The air smells like salt and rain here. You’d hate it.
I miss the noise. Don’t get too comfortable without me.
– L.”

I read it a dozen times.
Then I played for the first time in weeks — a song that wasn’t meant for anyone but her.

She came back in early spring.

The day was warm, the kind that made the city smell like rain and possibility. I was halfway through a song when there was a familiar knock — soft, uncertain, exactly the same as the first one she ever gave me.

When I opened the door, she stood there smiling — not the careful kind, not the guarded one. A real smile. The kind that reached her eyes.

“Hey, rock star,” she said.

I froze for a second, half-convinced I was dreaming. “You’re back.”

“Miss me?”

“Every damn day.”

She laughed and stepped forward. “Good. Because I brought souvenirs.”

She handed me a small bag. Inside was a mug that said ‘World’s Okayest Neighbor.’

I grinned. “Perfect.”

She shrugged. “Felt accurate.”

Then she looked around the apartment and frowned playfully. “You didn’t destroy the place. I’m impressed.”

“I tried. Missed your supervision.”

She smiled again, but it faltered slightly. “I didn’t know if you’d still want me here.”

I stared at her for a moment. “You ever notice you only knock when you already know the answer?”

That made her laugh, quiet and relieved. “Still impossible, I see.”

“Still pretending not to like it, I see.”

She moved back in next door, but it didn’t feel like next door anymore. It felt like home stretched across two apartments — one heartbeat, two doors.

Life settled again, though different this time. Easier.
Lighter.

She’d work from my couch half the time, muttering about authors who couldn’t meet deadlines. I’d play in the background, pretending not to notice how she hummed along when she thought I wasn’t listening.

Sometimes, I’d catch her staring.
Sometimes, I stared back.
Neither of us said anything, but the quiet between us spoke louder than words.

Then came the call that tested us both.

It was a Thursday night. I was finishing up a late gig downtown — my first one in months — when my phone buzzed. Lila’s name flashed across the screen.

“Hey,” I said, smiling. “You’d love this place. They actually—”

Her voice cut through, trembling. “Matt. There was a fire.”

My stomach dropped. “Where?”

“Our building,” she whispered. “Top floor. They evacuated everyone.”

I was already moving, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It didn’t reach our floor. But the smoke—Matt, it’s everywhere.”

“I’m coming.”

“Don’t—” she started, but I hung up before she could finish.

By the time I reached the building, firefighters had already cordoned it off. The air was thick with smoke and adrenaline. People stood huddled outside in blankets, faces lit by flashing red lights.

Then I saw her.

Standing on the curb, barefoot, wrapped in a gray blanket. Eyes wide and searching until they found me. And when they did, she broke — running straight into my arms.

I caught her, holding her tight, breathing in the faint smell of smoke and rain.

“You okay?” I asked, voice shaking.

She nodded against my chest. “Yeah. Just… scared.”

“Me too.”

She laughed weakly. “You weren’t even there.”

“That’s not how scared works.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes glistening. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you love that about me.”

She rolled her eyes, but a tear slipped free anyway. I brushed it away with my thumb. “You really thought I’d let you face a fire alone?”

“I didn’t think,” she said softly. “I just… needed to hear your voice.”

“You always can,” I said. “Even if the walls burn down.”

She laughed through her tears, the sound breaking something open in both of us.

They let us back inside the next morning. The fire hadn’t reached our floor, but the smell of smoke lingered in everything — the carpets, the walls, the air.

We spent the day cleaning, opening windows, airing out what we could. At one point, I found the old box of her notes — the ones from when we still pretended to hate each other.

Lila saw it too. She knelt beside me, pulling one out.

“You were flat on the second verse,” she read aloud, smiling. “God, I was awful.”

“You were honest.”

“Honest, sure,” she said. “But mostly just scared.”

“Of what?”

She looked at me, her eyes soft. “Of liking you.”

I smiled faintly. “Didn’t work out so well for you, huh?”

“Terribly,” she said, laughing. “And I wouldn’t change it.”

That night, we sat by the window again, the faint smell of smoke still clinging to the air.
Outside, the city buzzed back to life. Inside, everything was quiet.

“I used to hate this kind of quiet,” she said suddenly. “The kind that makes you think too much.”

“And now?”

She smiled. “Now it sounds like us.”

She leaned her head against my shoulder. “You ever think about how weird this is? That we started because I couldn’t stand your music?”

“Hey, it’s a great origin story.”

“Annoying musician and uptight editor?” she teased.

“Sounds like a Hallmark movie waiting to happen.”

She laughed. “If you ever write it, make sure you give me better lines.”

“Better than ‘stop being nice, it’s confusing’?” I teased.

She groaned. “You kept that one?”

“I kept all of them.”

Her head lifted slightly, eyes meeting mine. “Why?”

“Because they remind me where we started. And how far we came.”

She smiled, a little shy, a little disbelieving. “You’re really something, Matt.”

“Something good, I hope.”

“Something real,” she said. Then, quietly, “I love you.”

The words came out so softly, I almost didn’t hear them. But I felt them.
Every syllable.

I didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”

The silence after wasn’t silence at all. It was full — alive — like the world was finally exhaling.

Months passed.

Life became a series of beautiful routines — messy, imperfect, honest.
We fought sometimes, sure. About work. About noise. About who left the lights on.
But even the fights felt like proof that we were still choosing each other.

I started playing gigs again, small places. She came to every one, always sitting near the back, pretending not to be proud. I’d always find her in the crowd anyway.

Once, during a break, I asked her what she thought.

She smirked. “You were flat on the second verse.”

And I laughed so hard I forgot to play the next song.

One evening, we were walking back home after a show when she stopped suddenly on the sidewalk.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She smiled, shaking her head. “Nothing. Just… remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“The first time I heard you play,” she said. “Through the wall. I was so mad. I wanted to kill you.”

“And now?”

She grinned. “Now I think I’d miss the noise.”

“You mean music.”

“I mean noise,” she said, smirking.

“Unbelievable,” I said, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

When we got home, I opened my guitar case and started playing — the same melody I’d written months ago during one of those quiet, aching nights when she was gone.

She leaned against the doorway, watching me, eyes soft.

“What’s that one?” she asked.

I looked up. “The one I wrote when I realized I was in love with my neighbor.”

She blinked, smiling slowly. “That’s cheating. You can’t make me cry after a perfect day.”

“Then don’t cry.”

“Too late.”

She came closer, sat beside me, and rested her head on my shoulder. The guitar hummed quietly under my fingers, the notes gentle and steady. Her hand found mine on the strings, stilling the music.

“You know,” she whispered, “you drive me crazy.”

“I know.”

“But I wouldn’t trade it for quiet ever again.”

Later that night, after she’d fallen asleep beside me, I sat up and looked around the apartment — at the faint shadows on the walls, at the candle on the shelf, at the mug that said ‘World’s Okayest Neighbor.’

I smiled.

Because somehow, in all the noise, all the chaos, all the missed beats — we’d found something that lasted.

Not perfect. Not planned.
But real.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

A week later, I found a note under my guitar. Her handwriting, as neat and sharp as the very first one she ever left me.

“You still make too much noise.
But this time, don’t stop.
– L.”

THE END