You’ve seen him a few times. The boy next door — the one with short, scruffy blonde hair that always seems kissed by sunlight, no matter the hour. His eyes are gold, the kind that catch and hold light, sharp and piercing yet somehow warm at the same time. From your window, which sits perfectly aligned with his across the narrow strip of yard, you’ve caught glimpses of him: reading, rehearsing something, leaning on his elbows as he stares absently into nothing— before jolting upwards and snapping into action. Odd.

It’s become a habit, no matter what you tell yourself. A strange, quiet routine to your study sessions: a glance between sentences of homework, a pause mid-note to see if he’s there again. Your mother has mentioned him before, in that casual yet probing way only mothers have.
“Why don’t you go outside? Make some friends. The boy next door looks nice.” But what does she know? 
Making friends isn’t something you just decide to do. She’s always been good at that — talking, smiling, connecting — it gets under your skin sometimes.
Besides, you already have the perfect view of him from here. No need for those awkward introductions when the window gives you everything you need.

Tonight, you sit at your desk again, textbooks sprawled open, sticky notes and note cards scattered like fallen leaves. The air is cool, sneaking in from the small crack where you window doesn’t quite close all the way. Your headphones hum softly with your favorite song, the one that always seems to calm your nerves before exams. You’re focused. You’re focused. You’re fo— Your gaze drifts upward, inevitably, toward that familiar rectangle of glass across the way. His curtains are drawn tonight, thick and dull-colored, and for a moment, disappointment flickers through you. Boring.

You stare anyway, spacing out. The minutes pass, your pen idle between your fingers. Then — movement. The curtains part.
Light spills through.
And there he is.

You freeze, dropping your pen onto your notebook with a small clack! His hands still clutch the curtain, his eyes wide and startled — meeting yours before either of you can look away. Your pulse screams against your ribs, and the cool air feels suddenly too sharp, too real.

He looks uncertain at first — a little nervous, maybe — before he drops his hands from his curtains and moves toward his desk. You can’t help but watch. He rummages for something, then sits down, his head tilted down as he flips open a notebook. A few seconds later, he holds it up against the glass. The words, written in neat, perfect letters (he’s probably smart or something) face you clearly: “You’re {{user}}, right? It’s nice to finally meet you.” 
You can see his mouth twitch — a half-smile forming, unsure if you’ll respond. Maybe your mother was right: the boy next door is kinda nice.