The first time Arman saw her, she was standing by her door, fumbling with her keys. The apartment building was old, with creaky floors and walls thin enough to hear your neighbor’s life unfold. He had moved in only a few days ago, and she was the first person he had seen up close. Her hair was a mess, her grocery bags nearly toppling, and her face showed a mixture of frustration and exhaustion.
“Need some help?” he offered.
She looked up, startled, then sighed. “I think my key is stuck.”
Arman stepped forward, gently taking the key from her trembling fingers and twisting it. The lock clicked open.
“Wow, that was fast. I swear this door hates me,” she mumbled.
“Maybe it just needed the right touch,” he said with a small smile.
That was the beginning.
Over the weeks, they settled into an unspoken routine. Her name was Riya, and she lived in 4B, directly across from his 4C. Every morning, as he left for work, he would find her watering the small plants she kept outside her door. Sometimes, she would offer him coffee if she had made extra. On rainy days, he would find her curled up with a book by her window, and he would smile as he walked past.
Their conversations were light at first—small talk in the hallway, casual greetings in the elevator. But soon, they started lingering. She would lean against her doorframe while he sat on the floor, recounting the bizarre stories from his work as a freelance photographer. In return, she shared tales of her students, as she was a teacher, and the silly things kids would say.
Then came the night of the blackout.
A storm had rolled in, knocking out the electricity in the building. Arman lit a candle and stepped outside, only to find Riya doing the same. Their eyes met in the flickering glow.
“Guess we’re stuck with candlelight for a while,” she said, sitting on the floor. He joined her.
For hours, they talked—about childhood dreams, heartbreaks, fears, and the little joys that made life worth it. It was different that night. The air was heavy with something unsaid, something electric.
“I like talking to you,” she admitted quietly.
“I like listening to you,” he replied.
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with a newfound understanding.
The day everything changed, Arman found her sitting by her door, head buried in her knees. When she looked up, her eyes were red.
“Riya, what’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
“My school is closing down,” she whispered. “Funding issues. I might have to move.”
Something inside him twisted painfully. The thought of coming home and not seeing her was unbearable.
“Maybe something will work out,” he tried, though he knew how slim the chances were.
She gave him a sad smile. “I don’t know.”
That night, he couldn’t sleep. He had never believed in fate, but he wasn’t ready to let her become a passing memory.
A week later, she knocked on his door, an unreadable expression on her face. “I got a new job,” she said.
“That’s great!” He wanted to celebrate, but something in her tone held him back.
“It’s in another city.”
The words hung between them like an unspoken goodbye.
“Then we make the most of the time we have,” he said finally, forcing a smile.
And they did.
They spent their evenings together—watching movies, exploring hidden corners of the city, sharing meals and memories. Each moment felt precious, stolen from an inevitable ending.
On her last night, they sat in the hallway again, just like the night of the blackout.
“Arman,” she whispered, “if things were different…”
He shook his head. “No ‘ifs.’ We lived this, and it was real.”
She nodded, blinking away tears. “You made this place feel like home.”
The next morning, she was gone.
The days blurred together after she left. The hallway felt empty. He still saw the remnants of her presence—the empty space where her plants used to be, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
Months passed. Life continued.
Then, one evening, as he returned home, he found a small note taped to his door.
Some doors only open for the right person.
His heart pounded as he turned to see her standing there, suitcase in hand, smiling.
“I couldn’t stay away,” she said.
And just like that, the hallway felt like home again.
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