Chapter 4: The Accidental Encounter

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.

“Morning,” he said. Just that. Casual, polite. A word people say to neighbors without thinking.

But my pulse slammed so hard I thought he’d hear it echo off the walls.

“Morning,” I managed, though my voice came out softer, tighter than I wanted.

Our eyes met, and in that instant, everything inside me came undone. All the glances, all the fantasies, all the imagined conversations—they collided with reality, and it felt like standing on the edge of something I couldn’t name.

He smiled. Not the distant, distracted smile I’d seen from the safety of my balcony, but one directed at me. Me. And I swear my knees nearly gave out.

I fumbled with my keys, dropping them once, twice, until they clattered against the floor. He bent before I could, his hand closing around them first.

“Here,” he said, holding them out.

I reached for them, my fingers brushing his. Just a fraction of a second, skin against skin, and my whole body lit up like fire had licked through my veins. I don’t think he even noticed, he handed them over as if it was nothing. But to me, it was everything.

“Thanks,” I whispered, clutching the keys too tightly.

“No problem,” he said, easy, friendly. Then he shifted the strap of his bag over his shoulder, gave me another quick smile, and walked down the hall, disappearing around the corner.

And just like that, it was over.

I leaned against my door, keys digging into my palm, my breath ragged. My groceries sagged heavy in my arm, but I hardly felt them. All I could feel was the ghost of his skin against mine, a touch so brief it barely counted, but to me it might as well have been an embrace.

I slid to the floor, groceries abandoned, my back against the wood, and laughed softly to myself. God, if anyone saw me, they’d think I was insane. It was nothing. A polite word. A neighborly smile. A brush of fingers.

But to me, it was more.

It was proof he was real.

Not just a collection of fantasies and daydreams stitched together by my obsession. Not just a shadow framed by windows and distance. He was flesh and warmth and presence, and now he had touched me—even if he didn’t know what that meant.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t focus. I kept replaying it in my head, like a song stuck on loop. His voice was low, casual, kind. His smile was soft enough to unravel me. The way his hand felt, just for that heartbeat of contact.

That night, when I lay in bed, I pressed my hand to my lips as if I could trap the memory there. My other hand still remembered the warmth of his fingers.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything, really. But to me, it was enough to feed the hunger burning inside.

Because if this obsession was built on glances and echoes before, now it had substance. Now it had touch. Now it had a voice.

And I wanted more.