Love next-door

The Dark

Chapter Five

The power went out without warning.

One moment the apartment hummed with its usual, barely-there sounds; the next, everything stopped. The refrigerator fell silent. The clock blinked and died. The dark arrived quickly, decisively.

I stood still longer than necessary, letting my eyes adjust. It felt childish to be unsettled by something so ordinary, but grief makes you superstitious. It teaches you that sudden changes rarely come alone.

When I opened my door, Daniel opened his at the same time.

We both laughed, softly, as if the dark might overhear us.

“I have candles,” he said.

“I have wine.”

It felt like a decision, though neither of us named it.

His living room was spare, orderly in the way of someone who didn’t need much. Candlelight rearranged the space, softened the edges. We sat on opposite ends of the couch, our knees angled toward each other, not touching.

For a while, we drank in silence. Not awkward. Just careful.

“I should tell you something,” he said finally.

I nodded.

“My wife’s name was Rebecca.”

The name settled between us. Not heavy. Not light. Just present.

“She died four years ago,” he went on. “I loved her recklessly. The kind of love that doesn’t plan for survival.”

I didn’t reach for him. I didn’t say I was sorry. I let the quiet do what words would have ruined.

“I thought,” he said, “that if I lived through that, wanting again would be… disloyal. Or foolish. Or both.”

Something in my chest shifted, slow and painful.

“I loved someone who left,” I said. “And I decided wanting was dangerous.”

He looked at me then—not searching, not pleading. Just open.

“I don’t do this,” he said. “I don’t let myself imagine.”

“I don’t need imagining,” I said. “I just need honesty.”

The space between us felt suddenly deliberate. Charged. Not with urgency, but with consequence.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to my hand.

I nodded.

His fingers closed around mine gently, as if he were learning the shape of something he intended to respect. The ache didn’t disappear. It sharpened—became something alive, something that asked to be endured rather than solved.

When the lights flickered back on, neither of us moved.

We let go at the same time.

I went home shortly after. We didn’t kiss. We didn’t promise anything. That felt right.

But when I lay awake that night, the wall between our kitchens felt thinner than it ever had. Not fragile—just unnecessary.