Chapter 3: The Laugh

It wasn’t just the way he looked.

That’s what I keep reminding myself, as if it excuses the way I feel. Yes, his shoulders can undo me with a single stretch, and yes, his smile lingers in my chest like a match sparking dry wood. But what really destroys me isn’t what I see.

It’s what I hear.

The first time I really heard him laugh, I nearly dropped my groceries. I was fumbling with my keys at the door, juggling a bag of oranges that threatened to spill everywhere, when the sound came from across the hall.

Deep. Rich. Unrestrained.

It stopped me cold.

I froze there in the hallway, bag digging into my wrist, breath caught like I’d been struck. It was just a laugh, but it rolled through the thin walls as though it was meant for me alone.

I’d never heard anything like it.

Warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading fast and sharp. For a moment, I almost leaned against his door, just to get closer, to catch every note. Instead, I stumbled into my apartment, dropped my groceries on the counter, and stood perfectly still, listening.

I couldn’t make out his words. Maybe he was on the phone, maybe with a friend—it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his laughter filled the silence of my apartment too, spilling into the cracks of my walls, wrapping itself around me like sunlight.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it again—that low rumble that built into something brighter, sharper, breaking loose as though he couldn’t contain it. I curled into my sheets, smiling like a fool, clutching my pillow as if it could anchor me against the waves of my imagination.

I wanted to hear it again. God, I needed to.

And after that, I started listening for it.

Not deliberately—at least, not at first. But soon enough, I was pausing when I caught the faintest noise from his apartment, holding my breath as though I could will the sound into being. When it came, my whole body reacted—my pulse quickened, my skin prickled, and I felt as though I’d just been handed a secret no one else in the world knew.

This morning, I heard it again.

I stepped onto my balcony, expecting the usual quiet ritual of watching him move around his kitchen. But instead, I found him leaning back in a chair by his window, phone pressed to his ear.

And then it came—the laugh.

I swear I almost dropped my mug.

It rolled out of him like music, unforced and golden. His head tilted back, his throat bared to the light, his mouth open in an easy, unselfconscious smile. His shoulders shook slightly, the kind of laugh that came from deep inside, the kind you couldn’t fake if you tried.

I couldn’t breathe.

I gripped my mug tighter, the porcelain burning against my palms, and let the sound wash over me. My imagination spun instantly, recklessly. What if I’d been the one to say something that made him laugh like that? What if he leaned toward me, eyes crinkling, his hand brushing mine as his joy spilled free between us?

The thought made my chest ache.

I wanted to earn that laugh. To be the cause of it. To hold it in my hands like treasure, knowing it was mine.

The fantasy unfolded without my permission: the two of us on a couch, mugs of coffee cooling between us. I’d say something small, something clever, and he’d pause—just for a second before that sound would burst out of him again. His shoulders would shake, his lips would curve, and I’d feel it not just in my ears but in my bones.

I pressed my palm to the railing, grounding myself, because the desire was too sharp, too alive.

Another laugh. Brighter this time, sharper. My pulse jumped, and suddenly I was restless, my whole body alight with energy I didn’t know how to hold.

I imagined leaning close enough to feel it against my ear, to press my face to his chest and let the vibration of it sink through me.

My cheeks burned.

I tried to look away, to busy myself with my plants, but it was useless. I was tethered to him, every note pulling me tighter, binding me in invisible thread.

When his call ended, he leaned back in his chair, still smiling, still unguarded. My heart softened at the sight, my lips curving as though his joy had stitched itself into me.

Even in silence, I could still hear it.

Later, when I sat at my desk, I tried to work, but my pen betrayed me. Instead of notes, I found myself scribbling fragments across the margins: I want to hear it again. I want to be the reason. I want him to laugh with me.

The words made my hand tremble.

It had only been a few days of noticing him, really noticing him, and already he was inside me in ways I couldn’t shake.

I know what people say about obsession—that it burns fast, dangerous, unsustainable. But they don’t understand. They haven’t heard his laugh.

Because once you fall in love with someone’s laugh, you don’t come back.

And I don’t want to.