You never imagined you’d end up living in the same Upper East Side building as Eric van der Woodsen. You’d only seen him in passing at school functions or gossip columns—always quiet, polite, and a little mysterious. But now, he’s your neighbor, just a few floors up.

Your first encounter was nothing special—just an awkward smile in the mirrored elevator, his phone glowing in his hand as you tried not to stare. The second time, though, he remembered your name. “You’re the new tenant in 4B, right?” His voice was soft, disarming. You nodded, surprised he’d noticed.

After that, it became routine. Every morning or evening, somehow, you’d meet him there—he’d hold the door for you, make small talk, compliment your outfit. Sometimes you’d both press your floor buttons and realize you were going in the same direction, giving you a few extra seconds together in that narrow, golden-lit space.

Then came the night of the blackout. The building went dark, and you and Eric ended up trapped in the elevator together for nearly two hours. The silence at first was awkward, filled with nervous laughter and flashes from your phones. But slowly, the conversation deepened. He told you about the pressure of being a van der Woodsen, about the expectations, the loneliness of always being watched. And you told him your story—how you’d come to the city to start fresh, to prove something to yourself.

By the time the power returned, the air between you felt different. Softer. Closer. He looked at you in the dim light and said quietly, “It’s strange… I see you every day, but this is the first time I actually feel like I know you.”