Chapter Three: The Trouble With Proximity
456 Words
By the end of the week, Nelson had officially become a recurring event in my life.
Not a problem. Not a coincidence.
An event.
He appeared everywhere—by the elevator when I was already late, in the hallway when I was trying to avoid human interaction, and once, memorably, right outside my door while I was wearing an oversized T-shirt and mismatched socks.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he said cheerfully.
I gasped and slammed the door in his face.
Not my finest moment.
Five seconds later, I opened it again. “You can’t just stand outside someone’s door like that.”
He leaned against the wall, clearly enjoying himself. “You can’t just answer the door like that.”
“I live here.”
“And I live next door. We’re basically family now.”
That was when I decided he was dangerous.
Nelson had a way of pushing past my defenses without trying. He joked when I expected silence, listened when I expected dismissal, and somehow made even the most mundane interactions feel charged.
Later that afternoon, I ran into him at the laundry room. Of course I did.
He was sitting on one of the machines, scrolling through his phone, looking entirely too comfortable for someone occupying shared space.
“You know those are for clothes, not people,” I said.
He glanced up. “I knew you’d come.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He grinned. “You say that, but you’re smiling.”
I absolutely was not.
I absolutely was.
While we waited for the machines, he asked questions—too many, too fast. Favorite food. Least favorite sound. What scared me.
I tried to deflect. He didn’t let me.
“Control,” I admitted finally. “I’m afraid of losing it.”
He studied me then, really studied me. “You’re allowed to let go sometimes, Elizabeth.”
No one had ever said that to me before.
The tension settled between us like a held breath.
Then the washing machine made a violent clanking sound and shook the entire room.
Nelson jumped. “Is it supposed to do that?”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t stop myself.
He stared at me like he’d just discovered something precious. “You laugh like you don’t do it often.”
“Stop noticing things.”
“I can’t.”
That night, lying in bed, I listened to music drifting faintly through the wall. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t careless.
It was intentional.
And for the first time, I didn’t knock to complain.
I lay there, smiling, heart racing, realizing the truth far too late.
My crazy neighbor wasn’t just getting under my skin.
He was getting dangerously close to my heart
- Writer
