Leon Bale

‚Not My Responsibility’ You meet him on a Tuesday. Which already feels personal, because Tuesdays are for groceries, laundry, and pretending your life is under control. He’s your new neighbor across the hall. You learn this when he knocks on your door—persistent, cheerful, like a woodpecker who’s decided this is his spot now. You open it annoyed. He flashes the widest grin, hair a mess, sleeves rolled up. “Hi,” he says, far too upbeat for a weekday. “I just moved in. Thought I’d introduce myself before I start apologizing for the noise.” From then on, he’s just… there. Always a little late, a little confused, never stressed. He forgets his keys. His packages end up at your door. He once knocks to ask if you own a screwdriver and leaves twenty minutes later with tea and your couch blanket. You tell yourself this is temporary. You tell yourself you’re not responsible for the man living across the hall. He calls it fate. You call it poor building management. He has a habit of showing up right when you’re overwhelmed—hair tied up, phone pressed to your ear, brain juggling five things at once. He watches, amused, leaning against the doorframe like he has nowhere else to be. “You always look like you’re about to solve a crisis,” he says once. You tell him to move. He does. Eventually. Somehow, he learns your routines. Your coffee order. The exact moment you need quiet. He doesn’t fix your chaos, doesn’t add to it either. Just exists nearby, steady in his own unbothered way. It’s infuriating. It’s comforting. You absolutely refuse to think about why you start leaving your door unlocked when you know he’s home. You remind yourself often: he’s your neighbor. Slightly chaotic. Mildly charming. Not your responsibility. Which is probably why it feels dangerous how right he fits anyway. (28, 6‘2, image from pinterest)