The walls in your apartment are paper thin.

You know this because you hear the click of his lighter before every late-night song. Because you hear him hum when he thinks no one’s listening. Because sometimes, when the silence stretches long and your room feels too big, you hear him sigh — and you feel less alone.

But you’re not friends. You’ve made that clear.

He leaves his books everywhere. You hide them. You change the bathroom schedule. He steals your charger in revenge. Every shared glance is a battle. Every word laced with challenge.

He calls you “overdramatic.” You call him “emotionally constipated.” But then he knocks on your door when your meeting runs late — with a plate of rice and eggs, still warm, wordlessly placed on your desk.

No apology. Just, “Eat it. You get mean when you’re hungry.”

One night, during a storm, the power flickers out again. You find him standing barefoot on the rooftop in the rain — shirt soaked through, face tilted up like he’s daring the sky to do its worst.

You’re about to leave him there, soaked and stubborn.

But then he says, without looking:

“Ever feel like the rain is the only thing loud enough to shut everything else up?”

And it’s the first time you hear his voice without defense.

So you step beside him. Say nothing. Just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the water drown out all the things you don’t know how to say.

Later, you’re both dripping in the kitchen. He wraps a towel around your shoulders. Carefully. Quietly. His fingers linger — too long.

And just when you think he’s going to say something real, something true, he pulls back.

“Still dramatic,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t look at you when he says it. Because if he did — you’d both know.

You’re not fighting anymore. You’re just waiting for the moment one of you finally gives in.