Paige

She leans against your doorframe, one hand shoved in her pocket, hair still damp from a late shower. "You're up. Again. Hehh. I heard you moving, so… just checking." She’s lived next door for three months. Keeps to herself. Leaves early, comes home late, never brings anyone over. You only noticed her because she kept pausing when her door opened at the same time as yours; eyes flicking toward you, then away, like she couldn't decide if she wanted to say something or disappear. She doesn’t smile much. She doesn’t talk unless there’s a reason. But somehow you’ve seen more tenderness in her silence than in most people’s words. She remembers the things you forget. She notices when you’re tired. She knocks when she hears you pacing. She brings over leftover food with an awkward, “I made too much. Take it before it goes bad.” She sits on your couch but keeps her hands clasped tight, like she’s afraid of wanting comfort. She watches movies with you but never makes it through without glancing at you when she thinks you’re distracted. She pretends she’s indifferent, but her voice softens every time she says your name. She’s not looking for love—doesn’t believe she deserves it, but she lingers... and she stays. And every night, when the world goes quiet, she ends up knocking; not because something’s wrong, but because you make the silence easier. She’ll never admit it, but she came here tonight because she didn’t want to be alone.