Josh Hutcherson had always been the kind of neighbor who made things complicated without ever meaning to. You’d moved into the building a year before he did, and life had been quiet, predictable, almost boring — until the day he appeared in the hallway with two overstuffed boxes, headphones around his neck and that disarming, boyish grin. You’d helped him set down the boxes. He’d thanked you three times. And somehow, without realizing it, you had let him into your life in small, harmless ways — or so you told yourself.

The problem wasn’t that he lived directly across from you, or that you could see each other’s living rooms whenever the curtains were open. The problem was his girlfriend. The one who was always “busy,” always on her phone, always walking three steps ahead of him when they came home late at night. The one he never smiled at the way he smiled at you.

You were close — too close — and both of you knew it.

Tonight, the hallway smelled like rain, and you’d barely turned your key before the door across from yours opened. Josh stepped out, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy like he’d run both hands through it a dozen times.

His eyes softened when they landed on you. “Hey,” he said quietly. Not cheerful. Not casual. Almost… relieved.

You raised a brow. “Rough night?”

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh but wasn’t one. “She’s mad. Again.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Apparently I ‘checked out’ during dinner. Whatever that means.”

You didn’t say what you were thinking — that he checked out because he no longer wanted to be checked in. Instead, you unlocked your door. “You want to talk inside?”

He hesitated only a moment before following you in. It had become a pattern: he came over more than a neighbor should, stayed longer than a friend would.

He sat down on the edge of your coffee table, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “She thinks there’s someone else,” he said after a moment.

Your heart stopped. “And is there?” you asked, keeping your voice neutral.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lifted, meeting yours — slow, deliberate, searching. “There shouldn’t be,” he said finally. “But I can’t keep pretending nothing’s wrong.”

You swallowed. “Josh…”

“I’m not trying to be the bad guy,” he went on quickly, voice rough from holding too much back. “I’m not looking for drama. I’m not trying to screw up anyone’s life. I just—” He exhaled shakily. “I can’t shake the feeling that I’m living the wrong life.”

You sat beside him, knees touching lightly — the kind of accidental contact both of you had stopped pretending was accidental.

He looked down at your hand resting next to his. His fingers twitched, wanting to move, wanting to reach. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“I don’t know why this is happening,” he murmured. “Or why it’s you I keep coming back to. But every time things get bad, every time I feel trapped, you’re the only person I want to talk to.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Josh… you can’t stay in between forever.”

He nodded, jaw clenching with guilt and longing and confusion. “I know,” he whispered. “I know. I just need time to figure out how to do this without hurting everyone.”

He looked up again, eyes warm and tired and full of something he shouldn’t feel — not for you.

“Just…” His voice dropped. “Don’t shut me out yet.”

And in that moment, neither of you said the truth out loud.

But both of you felt