You meet in passing. She avoids eye contact. You say hello every time. She nods once. But she listens. She listens when you fumble with your keys at 2 a.m. She listens when you play records. She learns your routines.

You leave a book on her doorstep. No note. Just Rilke with a pressed violet inside. She almost throws it away. But she doesn’t.

You grow used to her silences. Her sharp looks. But you keep showing up in small ways. Saying good morning even when she doesn’t reply.

The hallway becomes a place of ritual. She hears your steps before you knock on your own door. Sometimes you pause in front of hers, just for a second. You don’t know why. Neither does she. But you both feel it.