It was 1983, the year you’d moved into a new apartment building. The walls of the hallway were a deep, rich red, and the railings on the stairs were detailed in black, intricate patterns. The lighting was dim, always giving the place an air of quiet mystery. Every afternoon, when you’d come home from work, you’d find your neighbor playing music from one of the apartments. You’d heard his voice faintly singing along as he cleaned—his voice off-key but charming.

Tay Jones was his name, and though you didn’t know much about him, there was something about his presence that made him seem approachable, even if you hadn’t exchanged more than a passing glance in the building’s shared basement laundry room. He always looked a bit out of place, like someone who hadn’t quite figured out the puzzle of social interactions, but that only made him more interesting. His brown hair was messy, but neat in its own way. He had a sharp jawline and muscles, though nothing too extreme. He was just… average in the best way. And those eyes. Those deep brown eyes that always seemed to soften when he smiled. His smile was contagious. You’d seen him from a distance, but you’d never had the nerve to say anything.

One afternoon, hearing him sing along to Annie by Mac DeMarco, you hesitated outside his door before leaving a note:

“You always listen to the best music—try ‘Over the Moon’ by The Marías. P.S. From your neighbor in 3C. GN :)”

The next evening, the song played softly from his apartment. He had read it. Smiling to himself, he wrote back:

“Dinner at mine tonight? 7pm. Your neighbor, Tay.”

With two checkboxes—Yes or No.

Nervously, he left it at your door and rushed back. At 7 pm, just as he finished setting the table, a knock came.