Chapter Text
I wake up to the sound of my alarm screaming like it’s offended by my existence.
6:10 a.m.
Too early for someone who got home at three. Too late to pretend I can call in sick without consequences. I let it ring for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the cracked ceiling like it might offer mercy. It doesn’t.
My body feels heavy. Not sore exactly—just tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. The kind that sinks into your bones and stays there, unpaid.
Coffee tastes like burnt regret. I drink it anyway.
The apartment is quiet in that thin-walled way, where silence isn’t peaceful, just waiting to be broken by someone else’s life. Pipes rattle. A door down the hall slams. Someone laughs, too loud, too early.
I don’t.
By the time I step into the hallway, I already feel late for a life I don’t want.
That’s when I see him again.
My neighbor.
He lives across the hall, door always closed, always quiet. I noticed him a week ago—new tenant, judging by the cardboard boxes that showed up and vanished overnight like they were embarrassed to be seen. No furniture deliveries. No friends. No noise complaints.
Just him.
He’s tall. That’s the first thing. Not gym-bro tall, not trying-to-be tall—just *built wrong* for a place like this. Like someone dropped a soldier into a civilian blender and forgot to press start.
Today, he’s locking his door when I step out. Black hoodie, baseball cap pulled low. Gloves, even though it’s not cold enough to justify them. He moves carefully, like his body’s negotiating terms with gravity.
We make eye contact for half a second.
Too long.
Too awkward.
I look away first.
We don’t say anything. We never do. He nods once—barely—and I pretend my phone is more interesting than human interaction.
Good. Perfect. Keep it that way.
I head to the shop. Eight hours of smiling at people who think paying six dollars entitles them to my soul. My boss reminds me—again—that I should “sound happier.” A customer yells because we don’t have their brand of whatever-the-fuck. Another asks if I “actually work here.”
I do. Unfortunately.
By the time my shift ends, my head feels stuffed with static. I don’t go home. I go straight to the bar.
Second job. Same bullshit, different lighting.
The bar smells like beer soaked into old wood and bad decisions. I change into black, tie my hair back, and brace myself. Drunk men lean too close. Some are harmless. Some think persistence is charming. I learn the difference fast. I always do.
“Smile,” one of them tells me.
I don’t.
When my shift finally ends, it’s past two. My feet ache. My patience is dead. I walk home with my keys threaded between my fingers out of habit, even though nothing ever happens.
Routine. Loop. Repeat.
The hallway light flickers when I get back. The building smells like cleaning chemicals and something fried three days ago. As I unlock my door, I hear movement across the hall.
My neighbor again.
He’s just standing there, door open behind him. No hoodie this time. Plain gray T-shirt, dark jeans. He looks… worse. Paler. There’s something stiff in the way he holds himself, like bending wrong would snap a wire.
His forearm is wrapped in a clean bandage.
Not sloppy. Not hospital-issued. Purposeful.
My brain registers it and immediately pretends it didn’t.
None of my business.
He notices me noticing.
For a split second, something sharp flashes across his face—calculating, alert. Then it’s gone, replaced with nothing. A blank that feels practiced.
We stare at each other in the hallway at two in the morning like this is normal.
“It’s late,” I say, because silence makes me uncomfortable and I hate myself for breaking it.
He blinks, like the concept hadn’t occurred to him.
“…Yeah,” he answers.
His voice is rough. Low. Like it doesn’t get used much.
That’s it. That’s the conversation.
I unlock my door and step inside, heart thudding for no reason I want to examine. Before I close it, I catch a glimpse of him shifting his weight, jaw tightening like he’s in pain.
I shut the door anyway.
I’m not a savior. I’m not curious. I’m tired.
Later, lying in bed, I hear him move around. Careful footsteps. A muffled grunt. Something drops softly, like he caught it before it could make noise.
Whatever he is, he’s trying very hard not to be noticed.
Same.
I fall asleep wondering how someone like that ends up here—cheap rent, peeling paint, neighbors who don’t ask questions.
Then I remind myself it doesn’t matter.
Tomorrow will be the same.
It always is.
---
I wake up late.
Not late-late. Just enough to feel that familiar spike of panic before realizing it doesn’t actually matter. The shop will survive without me for five minutes. The world always does.
The morning is gray. The kind that seeps into everything. I shower, dress, move on autopilot. Coffee again. Burnt. Predictable.
When I step into the hallway, he’s already there.
Sitting.
Right on the floor, back against the wall across from his apartment door.
For half a second, my brain misfires. This isn’t part of the routine. He’s not supposed to be *there*. He’s supposed to be a shadow that occasionally nods.
He looks up when he hears me freeze.
The bandage on his arm is gone. Replaced with a darker shirt, long sleeves despite the building being overheated as hell. His face looks tighter. Like sleep didn’t do its job.
We stare at each other again.
I consider pretending I forgot something inside. I consider stepping over him. I consider asking if he’s okay, immediately hate myself for it, and do none of those things.
“You blocking the hallway?” I ask instead.
It comes out flat. Not mean. Not kind. Just… tired.
He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.
“No,” he says, then shifts—carefully—to give me space. The movement is controlled, deliberate. Like he’s managing pain on a schedule.
I walk past him.
I don’t slow down. I don’t look back. But I feel it—the way his attention tracks movement like a reflex he hasn’t switched off yet.
At the stairs, I pause.
I don’t know why.
“People complain about that,” I say, nodding vaguely toward the floor. “Sitting in the hall.”
He looks up again.
“I won’t make it a habit,” he replies.
There’s something about the way he says it. Like promises matter more than they should.
I leave before my brain can do anything else stupid.
The day is the same. Complaints. Sighs. Someone throws change on the counter like I’m a wishing well. I smile when I have to. I don’t when I don’t.
By the time my shift ends, my head aches. The bar is worse tonight. Loud. Messy. One guy slurs apologies after spilling a drink on me. Another leans too close and smells like regret and cheap cologne.
I don’t think about my neighbor.
I swear I don’t.
But when I get home, close to three again, the hallway light is out. Maintenance never fixes it right. The dark feels heavier tonight.
I unlock my door—and stop.
There’s blood.
Not a lot. Just a smear on the wall near his door. Cleaned badly. Like someone tried to be quick and quiet.
My chest tightens. Annoyance flares first. Then something colder underneath.
I shouldn’t care.
I open my door and step inside, shut it, lock it, lean my forehead against the wood. I stand there longer than necessary, listening.
Nothing.
No movement. No sound.
I tell myself it’s none of my business. I tell myself a lot of things.
Sleep comes rough. Broken. I dream of hallways that stretch forever and doors that won’t open.
The next few days blur together. Work. Bar. Home. Repeat.
He disappears.
Not completely. I hear him sometimes—floorboards creaking, a door opening at odd hours—but I don’t *see* him. No nods. No awkward silences.
Part of me is relieved.
Another part is irritated by how much I notice the absence.
On the fourth day, I’m taking the trash out when I run into him again. Literally.
He steps around the corner too fast. I collide with his chest. Solid. Unmoving.
“Shit—” I start.
He grabs my arm automatically. Too fast. Too firm.
Then he realizes.
His grip loosens instantly, like he touched fire.
“Sorry,” he says. Too quick. Too sharp.
I rub my arm. Not hurt. Just surprised.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You’re hard to knock over.”
That earns me a look. Brief. Curious. Gone.
“Yeah,” he mutters.
We stand there, trash bags between us like neutral territory.
Up close, I notice the details I shouldn’t. The faint bruise near his collarbone. The way his eyes scan the stairwell before settling back on me. The tension humming under his skin.
“You live alone?” I ask, immediately regretting it.
He stiffens.
“Yes.”
Short. Final.
“Figures,” I say. “This building’s allergic to noise.”
His mouth twitches. Barely.
“Good.”
That’s it. That’s all we exchange.
But when I pass him, I feel it again—that sense of something coiled, contained. Violence packed away like a box labeled *do not open*.
Back in my apartment, I sit on the edge of my bed longer than usual.
I think about how strange it is—how someone so clearly not built for this life is trying so hard to stay in it.
I think about how I’ve been doing the same thing for years.
Outside, a door closes softly.
Tomorrow will probably be the same.
But for the first time in a while, I’m not entirely sure.