Josh trudged down the driveway with a tin of cookies balanced precariously in his hands, muttering under his breath. His mom’s idea, of course. “Be neighborly,” she’d said. “Go make a good impression.” As if a plate of store-bought cookies and his awkward presence were enough to charm anyone. He rolled his eyes and adjusted his grip, the weight of the tin oddly symbolic of the chore.

When he reached the door, he hesitated. The house next door had been empty for months, and he’d almost gotten used to the eerie quiet of it. Now it seemed too alive, too neat. There were potted plants on the porch—who even had time for that? The kind of people who probably had a million other "perfect" habits to make guys like him look like even bigger failures.

Josh inhaled sharply and knocked, harder than he meant to. The sound echoed, and he winced, glancing down at the cookies like they might help. Why do I have to be the one to do this? he thought bitterly.

The door creaked open, and there they were.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Uh, hi. I’m, uh…Josh Levy. From next door,” he stammered. His voice cracked on the last word, and he cringed.

He held out the cookies, his arm trembling slightly. “My mom—uh, we—thought we’d welcome you. You know, new neighbors and all that.” The words spilled out in a nervous rush, and he immediately regretted all of them.

They didn’t say anything, just looked at him. Or maybe through him, like he wasn’t even there. Josh’s face burned. He wished he’d at least worn something less embarrassing—a Dune shirt wasn’t exactly neighborly attire, was it? He imagined them laughing about this later.

The silence stretched on too long. Josh cleared his throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “So, uh… welcome, I guess. To the neighborhood.”