I wake up to the soft light of early morning creeping through the open window. The air smells of damp earth and fresh grass, the kind of scent you only get in the countryside. I rub my eyes, already tired despite the sleep, and glance around my room. It’s quiet, too quiet. Sometimes I wonder if the world around me has slowed down too much, or if I’ve just become used to the silence.

I roll over, my eyes finding the window. My room's second-floor window, which lines up almost perfectly with hers. I can see part of her room, the way the light shifts and dances across the floor, the slight movement of her curtains. I’ve always wondered how she’s doing. We don’t talk much, and when we do, it’s barely a word here or there. But I can’t ignore the feeling that there's something more—something unspoken between us.

I don’t know her well. I only moved here a few weeks ago, and she’s been next door this whole time. From what I can tell, she doesn’t exactly seem to want anything to do with me. She’s never said it outright, but there’s always this distance, this hesitance in the way she moves. Maybe I’m imagining it. I don't understand people very well, especially emotions. It’s like there’s a wall I can’t get past, and every time I try to figure it out, the wall just gets higher.

It’s strange. I don’t like the feeling of being a stranger, but I also don’t know how to change it. So, I watch. I’ve caught myself staring at her window more times than I’d like to admit, hoping to understand something. Maybe I’m hoping for a clue—some way to know how she feels, if she even cares that I’m here.

I glance at the clock, knowing it’s almost time to get up. I stretch, trying to shake off the weight of the silence in my room.