Obsessed With My Neighbor: Romantic Collection

It started with a smile.

Not mine—his.

I was standing on my balcony, half-distracted with the task of watering my plants, when I looked up and saw him through his window. He wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, just adjusting a picture frame on the wall but the way his lips curved, the subtle crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the lazy tilt of his head… it was enough. Enough to catch me. Enough to keep me.

I should have looked away. I know that. Neighbors glance at each other all the time; it’s nothing special. But I didn’t. My eyes stayed, fixed on him like he was a magnet and I was a helpless needle. I watched the sun touch his hair, turning it into something softer, warmer, almost golden. I imagined brushing a strand away from his forehead, just once, just to know what it felt like.

And then, shamefully, I imagined more.

I pictured him noticing me, turning his head and catching me staring. His lips would curve into something sly, teasing, as though he understood exactly what he was doing to me. My stomach knotted at the thought, a sharp thrill running through me like a secret I wasn’t supposed to hold.

My hand trembled, water spilling onto the railing. I told myself I was ridiculous. It was just a neighbor, just a smile, just a man adjusting a frame on his wall. But no amount of reasoning could calm the storm he had already stirred inside me.

I went back inside, but he followed me anyway. Not in body, but in thought. His image clung to me like perfume, drifting through the quiet of my apartment. I kept seeing the way his shirt stretched faintly against his chest, the way his mouth curved without effort. And though I tried to busy myself—folding laundry, tidying the counter, making tea—I found myself replaying that moment again and again until I felt dizzy with it.

That night, I lay in bed restless, my ceiling fan whirring overhead. But my mind wasn’t on the ceiling or the shadows dancing across the walls. It was across the hall. It was with him.

I imagined what it might be like to share space with him. To sit across from him at a table, legs brushing accidentally under the wood. To see that smile up close, directed at me, as though I’d earned it.

My breath hitched at the thought.

And then the imagination grew bolder. What if I leaned over? What if I reached out, just a little closer, close enough to trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip? What if he didn’t pull back?

I laughed softly at myself, rolling onto my side and tucking my face into my pillow, as though I could hide from my own thoughts. It was absurd. I didn’t even know his last name. I didn’t know his job, or his middle name, or whether he liked his coffee black or sweet.

But I knew this: I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The next morning, I tried to convince myself it would fade. That first glance would dissolve into normal neighborly indifference. But the moment I stepped outside, there he was again—pouring coffee into a mug by his kitchen window, the light catching his face just right.

And just like that, the obsession deepened.

I leaned against my balcony railing, pretending to fuss with the soil of my plants, but every nerve in my body was tuned to him. The way he moved, unhurried. The curve of his mouth as he took his first sip. The barest shift of his shoulders as he stretched.

He didn’t even know I was there. That made it worse, or maybe better—I couldn’t decide. It gave me freedom to watch, to imagine, to let my thoughts wander places I would never dare speak aloud.

And oh, they wandered.

I thought of him turning suddenly, catching me in the act, raising his mug in a silent salute. I thought of him crossing the distance, knocking on my door with that same easy smile, saying something simple like, “Morning.”

Would my voice even work if he did? Would I stutter, blush, betray everything brewing inside me?

The thought sent a tremor through me.

By the time I went back inside, my tea had gone cold, my chest was tight, and I knew. I couldn’t deny it anymore. This wasn’t just curiosity. This wasn’t harmless.

This was something else.

Something sharper.

Something dangerous.

Because from that first glance, I realized I didn’t just like noticing him. I didn’t just enjoy it.

I craved it.

And no matter how much I tried to fight it, no matter how much I told myself I was being foolish, I couldn’t let go.

I was obsessed.