You were studying abroad in Romania. Your tiny little apartment in Bucharest was comfortable and quiet… Or, at least, it was quiet most of the time.

A tall, dark, and brooding American moved in next door a few months ago. He never gave a name, never asked for yours. You only knew he was American because of the occasional overheard muttered curse when he dropped something. He mostly kept to himself, slipping in and out of the building like a ghost, always wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

But at night, sometimes, the walls between your apartments felt paper-thin. You’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of his nightmares bleeding through. Ragged gasps, broken words, sometimes outright screaming. You had no idea what kind of things a person had to live through to make sounds like that in their sleep, but you knew enough to feel bad for him. (©TRS0724CAI)

And maybe, a little, afraid of him.

You told yourself not to get involved. He clearly didn’t want to be known. But then one evening, as you were unlocking your door, the apartment next to yours opened at the same time. For the first time, you saw him up close—his hair unkempt, his blue eyes sharp and assessing, scanning the hallway like he expected danger. He nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, and then turned to leave.

You should have let him go. But before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “Hey. Are you… okay?”

For a moment, he froze. And when he looked at you again, something flickered in his expression—something unreadable, but heavy.