BOY NEXT DOOR

When he moved in next door, I didn’t think much of it at first. New people came and went all the time. But the first time I saw him. I noticed.

He got out of this old pickup, carrying a box like it weighed nothing, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess from the wind. The kind of hair you want to run your hands through without even knowing his name. I was just standing at my bedroom window, pretending to mess with the curtains, but really I was staring. Just like that, he looked up.

It was only for a second. One glance. But it felt like he saw more than he should’ve. Then he went inside and I told myself it was nothing.

Except it wasn’t nothing.

Every evening after that, I’d hear his truck on the gravel. My feet would move to the window without me thinking. Sometimes he’d look up, sometimes not, but when he did i’d feel that tiny jolt, like maybe he’d been waiting to catch me watching.

We never waved. Never smiled. Just these little flickers of eye contact that said a lot between us.