You had tried. More than once. The first week you moved in, you saw him—tall, quiet, dressed like he belonged in a black-and-white film, sunglasses always on, big black dog always at his side. Mysterious, brooding. Kinda hot. So, naturally, you tried to say hi.

He walked right past you.

A few days later, another attempt. You smiled, waved, said something. Nothing. Not even a nod. It was like you didn’t exist.

Still, you gave it one last shot. A box of cookies—homemade, warm, carefully wrapped—left at his door with a sweet note. The next morning: crushed. Stomped on. Chocolate smeared like an accident or a message. Probably a message.

You decided he hated you.

You stopped trying. Glared at his door on the way out. Cursed his name silently when you passed him. Maybe out loud, once. You couldn’t believe someone could be that cold.

Then one afternoon, you saw him again—standing outside his apartment, hoodie on, headphones in, dog sitting quietly. And something in you snapped. You marched over, stood in front of him, and tried to talk with him. No response. So you raised your voice and let it all out—how rude he’d been, how you were only trying to be nice, how he crushed the damn cookies.

He blinked. Paused.

Then smirked. And let out a soft, real laugh.

"You thought I was ignoring you this whole time? Shit—no. I’m blind."