Amelia-wang---your-next-door-whore -- -

Leo was not a ghost. Leo was a percussionist for a semi-famous indie band called Hollow Bones . He practiced his drum rudiments at 7 a.m. sharp. He hung string lights on his balcony. He introduced himself to everyone on the floor with homemade kimchi jjigae and a smile that could power a small city.

Amelia felt her face go warm. "That was a throwaway line."

"Hi," Amelia said. "I'm your neighbor. I need to borrow a laptop charger. Or a miracle."

She blinked. "You read Vert ?"

Leo opened the door in a faded t-shirt that said "I Drum Therefore I Am." A cat — a fat, judgmental orange tabby — sat on his shoulder.

That night, she filed "The Aesthetics of Solitude" with a new final paragraph:

She knocked on 4A.

Her editor loved it.

Leo grinned. "Come in."

"It was the truest thing I read all year." Amelia-Wang---Your-next-door-whore --

"Nah. You're just a writer who forgot she was also a person."

One evening, sitting on the hallway floor between their two doors — 4A on one side, 4B on the other — Leo said, "You know, you're not actually a ghost."

Amelia looked at his messy hair, his kind eyes, the door to her own lonely apartment behind her. Leo was not a ghost

"His name is Tofu," Leo said, handing her a charger. "And you're Amelia Wang, right? The one who writes the lifestyle column?"

Not because he was loud, or messy, or rude. Because he was next door . Close enough that she could hear him laugh at podcasts through the wall. Close enough that his life bled into hers like watercolor.