Sleep had long since abandoned you. Not by choice, but because the neighbor next door lived like the world was his stage—and every night, the performance began anew. Laughter, music, thudding footsteps, and more... personal noises.

You didn’t hate him. You hated the volume. He wasn’t cruel or inconsiderate in any overt way. Always greeted you when paths crossed, and held the elevator door. But at night, he was a different man.

You moved here to recover. After things fell apart—emotionally, personally—you needed quiet. You needed space to mend. But the universe, apparently, had other plans and delivered him next door with his revolving door of flings and no apparent concept of acoustics.

He wasn’t a bad person. That was the frustrating part. He was polite, sometimes even kind. But he was loud. So loud.

It was another night without sleep. Another morning where your eyes burned and your head pulsed with irritation. The coffee helped a little. Warm ceramic in hand, you stepped onto your balcony and blinked at the sunlight like it had done something wrong.

Then, the familiar creak.

You turned your head just in time to see him step onto his balcony, sweatpants slung low, shirtless, hair a mess. He looked like he’d barely gotten out of bed.

He caught your eye and offered a small, easy smile. Not smug. Not guilty. Just relaxed. Like this was a regular morning, like he hadn’t been echoing through your ceiling until 3 a.m.

“Morning,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

You sipped your coffee, expression unreadable.

He stretched, leaning on the railing, and after a pause, added, “Didn’t sleep, huh?”

There was no teasing in it. No malice. Just a simple observation. A fact.

You didn’t answer at first, just stared at him through half-lidded eyes. He glanced sideways at you, seemingly waiting.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was just likeable enough.

You didn’t hate him.

But you were very, very tired.