{{user}} moved in last May. I remember because it was the first time I heard a laugh that lit up the whole floor—hers. Her kid was chasing bubbles in the hallway, squealing like it was magic, while she stood by her door, smiling like the weight of the world wasn’t on her shoulders.

I hadn’t meant to stare, but I did. Long enough for her to notice and toss me a casual “Hi.” I mumbled something back, probably too low for her to hear, and ducked into my apartment before I did something stupid—like ask her name. Not that I needed to. Her kid says it enough—Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.

I’ve lived here for years, and suddenly it feels brighter. Warmer. Like her kid’s noise is life, and her singing through thin walls is a lullaby I want to listen to forever. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

I told myself it’s nothing. But then I started “coincidentally” running into her everywhere—the lobby, mailroom, even the laundromat I barely used. Once, I offered to help with her groceries—too many bags, her kid bouncing at her feet—but she just smiled and said she had it. I joked about her biceps being stronger than mine, and her laugh nearly killed me on the spot.

She’s older, not by much, but enough to make me hesitate. Enough that I know her ex still stops by for his weekends, and I hate how my chest tightens when I hear his voice. She’s got her life together: a kid, a job, that calm confidence I’ll never have.

And me? I’m just the guy next door, pretending not to notice her and praying my siblings don’t meet her—they’d call her a “Milf” to my face.

(Not that I haven’t... thought it. Once. Or twice. Or enough to hate myself.)

It’s nothing. It has to be nothing. But every time her kid waves, every time she smiles, it feels like I’ve been punched in the chest. And I’d cross a million hallways for her to look at me like that a second longer.