Chapter 6: Whispering His Name

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 railing, Mark glancing at me with that faint, easy smile that made my pulse lurch every single time.

It was intoxicating.

I picked up a notebook I’d been ignoring for weeks and flipped to a blank page. My pen hovered for a second, trembling in my hand. And then I wrote it, slowly, deliberately:

Mark.

I wrote it again on the next line, letting the letters flow, letting them spell themselves across the page like a spell. Mark. Mark. Mark. Each time, it sounded different in my head. Each time, it made my chest tighten, my stomach flutter, my fingers itch as if they wanted to reach out and trace his face in the air.

I laughed softly at myself, shaking my head. You’re ridiculous, I whispered. It’s just a name.

But it wasn’t just a name. It was a key. A key that unlocked every thought I had about him, every image, every moment I’d imagined. And the more I repeated it, the more the fantasy grew.

I pictured walking past his door, calling his name softly, just enough so he might hear. Mark. He’d peek out, confused at first, and then recognition would light his eyes. The corners crinkled, that same smile spreading slowly, almost shyly, before he stepped closer. My pulse spiked at the thought. Even in imagination, it was electric.

I scribbled the scene in the notebook, letting my pen capture the fluttering heat inside me:

“Mark,” I’d say, voice quiet, teasing.

Mark would look up.

Mark would smile.

Mark would stay.”

I set the pen down, pressing my hand to my lips. Even in my own apartment, the thought of speaking his name aloud made me shiver. The word felt alive, almost dangerous.

Later, when I went out to the balcony, mug in hand, I couldn’t resist saying it softly again, letting the wind carry the sound, hoping it would, somehow, reach him.

“Mark…”

It drifted into the morning air, faint enough that no one could hear, but in my mind, it traveled across the courtyard. I pictured him looking up, turning toward me, catching the sound. My chest tightened at the image. Just hearing me whisper his name would draw him closer, I was sure of it. And the thought of that, even imagined, made my stomach knot with a delicious ache.

I leaned on the railing, eyes following the stretch of sunlight across his window. My imagination refused to stop. I pictured him sipping his coffee, paused mid-motion, head tilting, eyes squinting as though he recognized me from the whisper. And then he would smile. That faint, teasing smile that belonged only to him.

I wanted to step into that moment. I wanted to cross the courtyard without anyone noticing, just to stand next to him. To whisper the name again, this time loud enough for him to hear. To see his reaction, see the shock, the recognition, the smallest spark of curiosity or maybe amusement.

My fingers dug into the railing, my nails pressing into the metal. I could feel my pulse hammering in my ears. My stomach churned with a mix of longing and guilt. I shouldn’t feel this way about him. I shouldn’t fantasize, shouldn’t whisper, shouldn’t… want.

But I did.

And the name made it worse.

Because Mark wasn’t just a neighbor anymore. Mark was tangible now. He had a sound, a weight, a presence I could attach to every thought, every desire. Saying it made him closer, made the obsession sharper, made the ache inside me almost unbearable.

I closed my eyes, letting my imagination spin even further. I pictured him leaning across the balcony railing, hands just shy of mine. Our eyes meeting, the distance between us charged with something unspoken. He would hear me whisper his name again, slower this time:

“Mark…”

And in my mind, he smiled, head tilted, lips just slightly parted. He didn’t laugh, didn’t speak, didn’t pull away. He stayed. He existed there, in that imagined space, a perfect, tantalizing mixture of real and unreal, and I could barely breathe.

I opened my notebook again, scribbling rapidly:

Mark.

Mark.

Mark.

Every repetition felt like a heartbeat, like a small pulse connecting me to him across the courtyard, across the walls, across reality itself. The notebook became a shrine, a place to channel my obsession safely—though I knew it wasn’t really safe. Writing it down, whispering it, imagining it—every act pulled me further into a world where Mark wasn’t just a neighbor. Mark was mine, in ways I could only explore in the secrecy of my thoughts.

Hours passed. The sunlight shifted, stretching across my balcony, falling on the notebook, on my mug, on my hands. I didn’t move much, lost in the rhythm of repetition, lost in the tension between fantasy and reality. Every time I whispered his name, even to myself, I felt a thrill like electricity running along my skin.

Finally, when the evening shadows began to stretch across the room, I put down the pen. I pressed my hand to my chest, heart hammering. My mind was still alive with him, still whispering, still circling back to the sound of his name.

I whispered it one last time before bed, letting it roll on my tongue, letting it sink into me like a secret I would carry in the dark:

Mark.

And for the first time, I realized just how dangerously attached I was becoming.

Because Mark wasn’t just a person I watched anymore. Mark was a name. Mark was a presence. Mark was obsession made flesh and I was hopelessly, completely, under its spell.