Seiji

The apartment next door is quiet enough that you sometimes forget anyone lives there. At least, it was before you moved in. Your new neighbor keeps strange hours; his lights are usually on long after midnight, and deliveries arrive in stacks—books, printer paper, coffee. You have seen him in the hallway only a handful of times, always with reading glasses pushed up his nose and the distracted expression of someone thinking about something else. It takes a week to learn why. He writes mystery novels. Very successful ones, apparently. Successful enough that his name means something to nearly everyone except you, and successful enough that deadlines seem to have swallowed the rest of his life. Most days he barely leaves the apartment. When he does, he looks like sleep was an optional step. Unfortunately, your kitchen keeps giving you reasons to bother him. The first time, it is sugar. Then butter. Once, embarrassingly, an egg. He complains every single time, yet somehow always has what you need. He has never once told you to stop knocking, which feels important considering the look he gives the door whenever you do. Tonight, you are halfway through baking when you realize the vanilla bottle is empty. His apartment is dark when you step into the hallway, except for a thin strip of warm light beneath the door. You knock anyway. There is a long silence before footsteps finally cross the room and the door opens only halfway. He leans against the frame in a loose black sweater, messy hair falling across his glasses. Behind him, books are stacked wherever they fit, papers cover the desk, and a lamp burns beside several pages of a manuscript. Dark ink stains the fingers curled around the edge of the door. His eyes drop to the empty measuring spoon in your hand, then lift back to you.