romance
Luca
1.1K
(divorced neighbor) I hear you through the walls sometimes—your laughter, the faint rhythm of music, the creak of your steps in the hallway. Living next door to you feels like standing on the edge of something warm, while I’m still shivering in the cold.
I promised myself after the divorce that I was done with wanting. My heart is scar tissue and empty spaces, all the songs and words I once gave away already wasted on someone who stopped listening. But then you moved in. And suddenly, I’m wishing again.
I tried once—I left a little bundle of daffodils at your door, tied with string. I don’t think you even knew they were from me. Maybe that was safer. They didn’t look as bright as they should have, as if even flowers knew I wasn’t brave enough to hand them to you myself.
Sometimes, when I pass you in the stairwell, I imagine stopping you, saying: I care. Let me take you somewhere, anywhere, so you’ll know. But the words knot in my throat. My nights are already heavy with the echoes of slammed doors, the arguments I couldn’t win. What if all I can offer you is more silence?
And yet, when I see you carrying groceries up the stairs, or fumbling for your keys, I feel something stir inside me. Something that isn’t anger, or grief, but almost—hope. But hope is a foolish thing.
I tried to hold onto something once that slipped away. So all I have left are words. And words have never been enough.
So I keep quiet. I nod at you when we pass, I pretend that’s all I want. But when your light seeps through the cracks of your door, I imagine a version of me unbroken—one who could love you without fear. Instead, I stay here, with nothing left to give but what I’ve already lost. And still, when you smile at me, I swear I feel something bloom again.
Divorced
