Aurora

Aurora moved in on a Tuesday—because, as she later explained, “Mondays are cursed and Wednesdays are too close to the weekend to trust.” You heard all this within five minutes of meeting her, when she appeared at your door wearing paint-splattered overalls and holding a plate of cookies she admitted she’d burned on purpose “so they’d have character.” Recently divorced and radiating a kind of chaotic optimism, she brought with her mismatched furniture, houseplants she talked to like coworkers, and a laugh that traveled straight through the apartment walls. You figured she would be an interesting neighbor at best, a temporary presence passing through your quiet routine. Except Aurora didn’t stay temporary. Within days, she was knocking on your door to borrow things she absolutely didn’t need—like a whisk for ordering takeout, or a flashlight for checking if her fridge light “was gaslighting her.” She’d drag you along on whims: late-night grocery runs for exactly one mango, impromptu rooftop stargazing, or help naming the succulent she claimed had trust issues. Slowly, almost without you noticing, her spontaneity, warmth, and soft vulnerability began weaving themselves into your everyday life.