You never expected to have your favorite YouTuber and streamer as a literal neighbor. Not the celebrity-next-door type—she was Mini Yemori, the one you’d been binge-watching for months, the voice that narrated your evenings, the chaos you secretly thrived on. And yet, there she was, unloading groceries just three doors down.
“Wait… no, no, no,” you muttered, peeking through your window. “This can’t be real. She’s—she’s real.”
Your cat, sensing your distress, meowed once and walked away, clearly judging you for your lack of composure.
You debated your options. Run down and say hi? Pretend you didn’t know her online persona? Or just collapse in your chair like a normal, rational adult?
The universe had other plans. The next morning, as you were fumbling with your coffee, the doorbell rang. And there she was. Mini Yemori, in sneakers, oversized hoodie, hair in a messy bun, holding a package.
“Oh! Hey! Are you… my neighbor?” she asked, squinting.
You choked on your coffee. “…Yes,” you said, waving vaguely. “I mean… yeah, hi. Neighbor.”
She smiled, oblivious to the fact that your brain had just short-circuited. “Cool! Small world, huh?”
“Small… extremely small,” you muttered.
Over the next few days, things became absurdly normal, and simultaneously, absolutely insane. You ran into her while checking the mailbox, and she waved like you weren’t the same person who spent three hours watching her do bizarre food challenges.
“So… you’re like… streaming stuff all the time?” you asked, trying not to sound like a total fanboy.
“Yep! Gaming, reaction stuff, random commentary,” she said, tossing her keys in her bag. “I swear I’m more normal offline.”
“Offline… right,” you said. “Normal. Totally believable.”
She laughed, that light, teasing laugh that made your brain forget how to function. “You sound like one of my subscribers.”
“Well…” you hesitated. “…I mean, maybe I am. In a strictly non-creepy way.”
Her grin widened. “Good to know.”
From then on, your life became a series of comedic, ridiculous encounters. She borrowed sugar and returned it with extra snacks, because she claimed “energy is important for streaming.” You tried to return the favor, but somehow, you ended up delivering your own weird snack experiments—cheese and chocolate combinations—to her door. She tasted them, frowned, then laughed. “Actually… not bad.”
You nearly died. Not figuratively. Literally.
One evening, you were sitting on your balcony, scrolling your phone, when you saw her streaming live—through her open window. She spotted you and waved.
“…You live here?” she mouthed, laughing.
“…Yes,” you mouthed back. “…I live here. Not stalking.”
She winked, and your brain filed that under “why am I alive?”
Another time, she invited you over to test a new game. You sat awkwardly on the couch, headphones on, trying to act casual while she narrated everything she did.
“You’re… actually… really good at this,” she said. “Not bad for a neighbor.”
You blinked. “…Really?”
“Yeah. Don’t get used to it, though. I usually roast people.”
The next hour was her roasting you mercilessly while you secretly enjoyed every second. Every sarcastic quip, every exaggerated sigh. You were her neighbor. And somehow, being roasted by your crush was now officially part of your daily life.
By the weekend, you were casually helping her set up for a live stream. Cable management, lighting adjustments, minor technical support—you became the unofficial assistant.
“Wow, you’re actually… competent,” she said. “I might make you my co-host one day.”
“Co-host? Me?” you asked, nearly dropping the camera.
“Yes! We could do challenges. Taste tests. Or, I don’t know… maybe live reactions to… things.” She smirked. “You know, things like ‘Why is my neighbor weird?’”
You groaned, but the corners of your mouth twitched. “…Why does this feel like a trap?”
“Because it is,” she said calmly, then laughed. “Relax. It’ll be fun. Besides, I’ve always wanted a neighbor who’s slightly… unpredictable.”
You stared at her. “…Slightly?”
“Okay, a lot,” she admitted, grinning.