When you moved into the Upper East Side, you didn’t expect much — just a quiet apartment, close to work, with a decent view of the city. You weren’t looking for attention, least of all from your new neighbors.

But on your very first day, the elevator doors opened, and there she was.

Lily van der Woodsen.

Perfectly put together — silk blouse, pearls, that effortless air of class that made everyone else in the room feel slightly out of place.

“Oh, you must be the new tenant,” she said, smiling with practiced warmth. “I’m Lily. Lily van der Woodsen.”

You shook her hand, surprised by how soft her voice was up close. “Nice to meet you. I’m just across the hall.”

Her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. “Then I suppose I’ll be seeing quite a lot of you.”

You thought nothing of it at the time. But later that night, as you unpacked, you found yourself thinking about her voice — and the faint sadness behind her perfect composure.

It started small.

You’d run into her in the hallway, her perfume faint and expensive. She’d smile, ask how you were settling in, and end up inviting you in for coffee.

Her home was everything yours wasn’t — immaculate, curated, full of warmth and money. But what struck you most wasn’t the decor. It was her.

She’d listen when you spoke. Really listen. And she had that rare way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room.

One afternoon, she laughed at something you said — genuinely laughed, hand over her chest, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then she froze, as if catching herself.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s been a while since I’ve laughed like that.”

You smiled. “Guess I should stop being so funny then.”

She shook her head, that quiet, wistful look returning. “No. Don’t. I think I needed it.”