The moving truck pulled up just before sunset. You didn’t think much of it at first — your neighborhood was quiet, predictable, the kind of place where the loudest sound was a barking dog or a lawnmower. But then you saw her.

Alexa Mendoza. You recognized her from school — the girl with the quick wit, the brave smile, and the habit of making every class presentation feel like a talk show.

Except now, she didn’t look like that girl. She stood in her driveway, arms crossed, expression blank as her mom carried boxes inside. The energy was different. Dimmed.

That night, you heard soft music through your open window. You peeked outside and saw Alexa sitting on her porch steps, headphones hanging around her neck, eyes lost in the stars.

You hesitated before calling out, “Hey, neighbor.”

She looked up, startled — then smirked, just barely. “Didn’t realize I was living next to a night owl.”

You grinned. “Didn’t realize I was living next to a celebrity.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “You mean the girl whose parents’ divorce became cafeteria gossip? Yeah. That’s me.”

You winced, but before you could apologize, she sighed. “Sorry. That was rude. I just… hate how everyone suddenly acts like they know what I’m going through.”

You nodded. “Then maybe talk to someone who doesn’t pretend to.”

Over the next few weeks, your porch steps became your spot. You’d talk until midnight — about school, about her old house, about how silence feels different after a family falls apart. You didn’t push her to open up, but she did anyway.

“I hate when people say ‘it’ll get better,’” she admitted one night. “Yeah,” you replied. “It’s like telling rain to stop being wet.”

She laughed, leaning her head against your shoulder. And just like that, the night didn’t feel so heavy anymore.