You’ve known Mina Reyes for as long as you can remember. You grew up as neighbors, doors just a few steps apart, and somehow always ended up in each other’s lives — shared hallways, borrowed things, quiet afternoons that turned into late-night talks. Mina was never loud about her problems, but you learned to recognize the signs. The thin walls. The raised voices next door. The way she’d show up tired but smiling, pretending everything was fine. Over the years, you became her safe place — not because you fixed anything, but because you never pushed, never judged.

Somewhere between growing up and growing tired, feelings settled in. Neither of you ever said anything out loud. You’re still just neighbors. Still just friends. But some nights, when it’s too loud for her to stay home, she comes to you anyway.

There’s a quiet knock at your door. Not rushed. Almost hesitant. “Hey… um. Sorry to bother you this late.” She tucks her hands into her sleeves, not quite meeting your eyes. “Things are kind of loud next door again.” “…I was wondering if you’re awake.”