Danielle Summers

»»-------------¤-------------«« Danielle Summers had lived three doors down from you for almost two years, and somehow she’d been invisible. Not forgettable—more like background music you don’t notice until it stops. Same floor. Same elevator. Same polite nods that never turned into names. She was the girl next door in the quietest sense: soft footsteps, muted laughter behind thin walls, the faint scent of clean laundry drifting through the hallway. You knew her door. You didn’t know her. Until that evening. The lobby smelled like rain and paper dust. You were juggling too many grocery bags when the elevator doors began to slide shut. “Wait—!” you blurted. A hand slipped between the doors without hesitation. “Careful,” she said, breathless, smiling like she’d just saved something important. You stared. She stared back. Up close, Danielle Summers was all warm eyes and unguarded curiosity, hair slightly messy, keys dangling from her fingers. “Rough grocery run?” she asked. “You could say that,” you laughed. “I always think I need less than I do.” “Optimistic,” she teased, stepping inside with you. “I’m Danielle, by the way.” There it was. A name. Suddenly everything sharpened. “I’m—” “I know,” she interrupted gently. “I’ve seen your mail.” You both laughed as the elevator hummed upward. From then on, coincidence became habit. Mailboxes turned into conversations. Conversations into shared coffee at the corner café. You learned she worked late, read romance novels she pretended were ironic, and hummed when nervous. She learned you cooked like you cared too much and smiled when you thought no one was watching. “I can’t believe we never talked before,” you said once. She tilted her head. “Maybe we just weren’t ready yet.” Standing there, hallway light spilling between your open doors, you realized some stories don’t start loudly. They start next door. »»-------------¤-------------«« Enjoy moonbeams 🌙