Obsessed With My Neighbor: Romantic Collection

I tell myself I step out onto my balcony each morning for the fresh air. For the way the early light warms my skin, for the scent of damp earth clinging to my plants. That’s what I say, anyway.But the truth?It’s him.Always him.The balcony has become my stage, my excuse. My little lookout tower, as though tending to the flowers gives me permission to linger, to steal glimpses I’m not supposed to take.This morning, he’s already there. Not on his balcony, but visible through the wide window in his living room. He’s folding something—a blanket maybe, or a shirt. I lean against the railing, heart already picking up speed, and I try to make my movements look casual. Like I just happen to be there. Like I’m not waiting, watching, wanting.The way he moves is maddening. Slow, unhurried, as though time bends for him. His hands are strong, deliberate, smoothing the fabric with a kind of care that makes my chest ache. It’s only folding, I know that, but in my mind, the image twists into som

I wasn’t supposed to see him today.That’s what made it worse.Somehow, it was easier to manage when I had my balcony, my mug, my cover story of tending to plants. There, I could control the distance, control my role as the silent watcher. Safe, unseen.But the hallway is different. There, there’s no railing between us. No window glass to hide behind. Just a few feet of polished floor and the pounding in my chest.I had gone out for something stupid—eggs, I think. I wasn’t even dressed properly for being seen. My hair was tied in a messy knot, my sweatshirt oversized, my grocery bag cutting into my arm as I fumbled with my keys. I was muttering under my breath, irritated at myself, when his door swung open.And there he was.Close. Too close.For a second, I froze, deer-caught, my body refusing to cooperate. His presence hit me like a wave—the faint smell of soap and coffee, the warmth of his frame, the easy way he carried himself even in something as simple as a T-shirt and jeans.“M

Mark.The name floated through my mind like a secret I wasn’t supposed to know. I said it under my breath the moment I stepped into my apartment, almost afraid it would escape me and drift across the walls like a confession. But it didn’t matter if it did. It belonged to me now, in the private sanctuary of my thoughts.I whispered it again as I closed the door behind me. Mark. The syllables rolled on my tongue, soft and slow, letting me taste each one, memorize it. It was absurd how much power one name could have. Yet here I was, repeating it like a mantra, letting it sink into my skin, into my blood, into the small, secret places that no one else knew existed.I dropped my bag on the floor and sank onto the edge of the couch, hugging my knees to my chest. I closed my eyes and pictured him. Not just the shape, not just the way sunlight hit his hair or the way his shoulders sloped under a simple T-shirt. I imagined the name and the face together—Mark smiling, Mark leaning against his r

Sleep didn’t come easily that night.I was lay on my side, watching the silver shapes that the city lights painted across my wall. Every few minutes I flipped my pillow, searching for the cool side, but my mind kept circling back to the mail room, to the smell of paper and dust, to the way his voice had curved around the word afternoon. I couldn't sleep. It hadn’t been much, and yet it played in my head like a song that refused to end.When I finally drifted off, the memory began to change. It stopped being a replay of what had happened and became something softer, dreamlike, filled with light that didn’t belong to the real world.In the dream, the mail room was wider and much brighter. The boxes rose high like a cathedral of small silver doors. I was standing in the same place with a stack of envelopes in my hands, but my fingers weren’t trembling anymore. The air felt different. It felt much warmer and alive, humming quietly, as if the whole room were holding its breath.Then I hea

I had been holding the package for longer than necessary, pretending to check the label while my mind rehearsed a thousand ways the day might pass without me noticing him.The late afternoon sunlight spilled across the building’s entrance, soft and golden, turning the concrete steps into a warm threshold. I hadn’t expected him. But then, of course, he appeared—Mark, stepping out of the lobby, his keys in one hand, a coffee cup in the other, his coat draped casually over an arm.For a heartbeat, I froze, my grip tightening on the package. My body remembered every detail of him from the way he carried himself, the faint smell of coffee that clung to his jacket, to the calm ease in his posture but now it was magnified, the world around us receding until only he existed in my field of vision.“Hey,” he said, glancing up with that same steady warmth I had come to notice.“Hi,” I managed, forcing my voice to stay steady. I swallowed hard, aware of how ordinary those words were compared to t