Page 2 of Alik

His face is shadowed, so I can’t see his expression from here, but I wonder what he’s thinking. Where he’s coming from. If he even noticed the pair or if he is as good at ignoring the world around him as he seems. He’s certainly never noticedme.

As if he heard my thought, he looks up.

I whip around, slamming my back against the wall and flattening my palms at my sides. Sharp breaths enter and exit through my nose as I stare wide-eyed at the front door.

Did he see me?

No.

Just because he looked up doesn’t mean he was looking at me. I was barely visible. It’s dark in here. All I have on is a standing lamp next to my couch.

He didn’t see me.

Hedidn’t.

I press a fist to my mouth and bite down. “Oh fuck,” I groan around it, rocking on my heels.

Six months. He’s lived across from me for six months, and we’ve never spoken a word to each other, never even made eye contact. I’ve been completely off his radar.

But I watch him every day. I’m weird. I’m a freak. I…

He can’t know.

I lower my fist when I get an idea and frantically whip my head around in search of my shoes. If he doesn’t think I was in my apartment, he won’t think I was watching him.

I find them by the couch then hurry to put them on before yanking my coat from the kitchen chair and hustling out the door. We live on the second floor, so it isn’t worth it to take the elevator down to the mailboxes. Instead, I sprint to the stairwell, throwing the door open and barreling down the stairs while pulling on my coat.

When I burst through the lobby door, I’m breathing like I’ve sprinted across town, not just down a flight of stairs. I don’t slow down until I get to my mailbox where I struggle to unlock the combination with shaky fingers.

The front door opens just as my mailbox does, and my neighbor walks in.

My heavy breaths silence as I grind my lungs to a halt, trapping air inside. I tip my head forward so my hair covers my face as I lean toward my box and pretend to be looking for something. It’s empty. I checked it hours ago.

I don’t expect it to matter because I think he’ll just walk past, but when he strolls up next to me, I let out my breath and take in a slow, shaky inhale as quietly as I can, as if he’ll find any amount of breathing suspicious.

“You’re out late,” he comments, opening the mailbox right next to mine.

My hand on the box door stiffens, and I shift to make an unnecessary amount of room for him. I can’t feel my lips.

He spoke to me.

He isn’t supposed to do that.

Heknows.

I clear my throat and work my numb lips, not at all sure what to say. “Y-yeah… You too.”

Not really. It’s only eleven. I’ve seen him come in at all hours of the night. For him, this is early.

Does he know I know this?

No. Jesus, stop being paranoid.

He grabs the envelopes from his box and shuts it before taking a few steps toward the stairwell. Surely, this is it. He’ll walk away. We’ll spend another six months, maybe longer, with no more interactions.

“You coming?” he asks.

Am I…?

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