That night, Leo's code refused to cooperate. Bugs popped up one after another like whack-a-moles, endless and infuriating. He shoved his keyboard away in frustration and lit a cigarette.
He'd only taken two drags when the noise started from next door.
Not crying. Retching.
One dry heave after another, stifled, painful to listen to. It sounded like she was trying to turn her insides out, yet desperately trying to swallow the noise back down.
Leo froze in his chair, cigarette dangling from his fingers, ears straining.
The sound went on, off and on, for a good ten minutes, not letting up. It only grew weaker, like she was running out of strength.
He stared at the rickety old lampshade on his wall and cursed under his breath.
Stubbing out the cigarette, he got up and went to the kitchen. He dug out a mug, scooped a hefty spoonful of honey, and poured hot water over it. The spoon clinked loudly against the ceramic. The water sloshed over the rim, scalding his hand.
"Shit," he hissed, slamming the cup down on the counter and staring at the spilled water.
None of his damn business.
He picked up the mug and walked to her door.
This time, he didn't hesitate. He knocked directly. Three firm, even raps.
The retching inside cut off instantly. Dead silence.
"It's me," he said to the door, his voice rough. "Leo."
No response.
"Heard you getting sick," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral, like he was commenting on the weather. "Made some honey water. Left it by the door. Too sweet, add some water."
Still no sound from inside.
He bent down, placed the mug on the floor next to her door, handle facing out.
"Leaving," he announced, turned around, went back into his apartment, and closed the door, but didn't lock it.
He didn't go back to his computer either. Just leaned against his own door, lit a second cigarette, didn't smoke it, just held it, listening.
The ash grew long.
About five or six minutes later, he heard the faintest click of a lock turning.
Then the sound of a door being cracked open.
A hand snaked out through the gap, fumbled, found the mug, grabbed the handle, and snatched it back inside.
The door shut quickly, the lock snapping firmly into place.
Silence returned.
Leo looked at the nearly burnt-out cigarette in his hand and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
The next morning, he opened his door to take out the trash.
The familiar mug was sitting squarely on his doormat.
Washed clean, gleaming, reflecting his own puffy, sleep-swollen eyes.
Under the cup were two things.
A folded note.
And a blister pack of pills.
He picked them up. The medicine was a prescription stomach drug, Omeprazole. Two or three pills were already punched out.
He unfolded the note. The handwriting was still neat and blocky, but the strokes were faint, shaky, lacking the strength of the last one.
「Thank you.」
「Don't do it again.」
Leo stood in the cold, quiet hallway, clutching the blister pack and the note, not moving for a long time.
Thank you.
Don't do it again.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, a complicated, unreadable feeling settling in his chest.
This neighbor. Really fucking hard to deal with.