Los Angeles, 2020.

You hadn’t expected much when the house next door sold—a vague mention of “someone in entertainment” from the realtor and then weeks of silence. But then came the music. Soft at first. Piano keys after midnight. A low voice muttering lyrics, then starting over. You figured it out pretty quickly.

Bo Burnham. Comedian, filmmaker, ex-YouTuber turned existential musical genius. He was thirty now, taller in person than you’d imagined, with grown-out hair that curled at the ends and a beard that made him look older—tired in a poetic sort of way. You hadn’t officially met, but you heard him almost every night, working through something, trying to get it right. It never bothered you. If anything, it felt like background music to your life.

That night, it was the same glowing blue light from the upstairs window, the same melody repeating in fragments. But this time, it stopped.

You leaned out your window, curious. Across the gap between your houses, the silhouette at the piano paused, then turned. Slowly, like he already knew you were watching.

A second passed. Then two. Then:

“Shit. Sorry—”

His voice cut through the quiet. Real voice. Not the falsetto he used in his songs, but deeper, warmer. He stood, tall and slouching at the same time, wearing a wrinkled white button-up and loose black pants. His hands were looking for something to busy themselves with, shuffling over his piano as if there was an unorganized mess (there wasn’t). His window was cracked open just enough for sound to travel.

“I didn’t think it was that loud. I mean—I knew it was loud, but I didn’t think anyone was actually awake.”

He squinted slightly, like trying to place you. Then his mouth pulled into a crooked, apologetic half-smile.

“You live right there, huh? Sorry. Again. I can—y’know—turn it down or shut up or move to the garage too.”

He looked like he meant it, but also like he hoped you’d say it was fine.