After that evening, I start noticing how often my attention drifts next door.
It annoys me at first. I do not like when my focus slips without permission. I like knowing where my thoughts are going, like everything else in my life. But suddenly, my eyes move on their own. Toward the fence. Toward the gate. Toward the house that used to be empty and predictable.
Now it is neither.
I tell myself it is curiosity. New neighbors always draw attention. That is normal. It does not mean anything. Still, I find myself slowing down near the window more often, pausing in my room when I hear movement outside.
Sam is everywhere in small ways.
Sometimes he is in the front yard, sleeves rolled up again, hands busy with something practical. Sometimes he sits on the steps with a mug in his hands, staring at nothing in particular. He does not always look happy. He does not always look thoughtful either. He just looks present.
That presence unsettles me.
I am used to people who hold themselves back. Who speak carefully. Who edit their expressions before letting them show. Sam does not seem to do that. What he feels appears on his face without permission.
I do not know why I keep watching him. I just know that I do.
At school, life continues the same way it always has. Bells ring. Teachers talk. Notes are taken. I sit in my usual seat, close enough to hear, far enough to disappear. Friends form plans around me without noticing when I am not included.
It does not hurt the way people think loneliness should hurt. It is quieter than that. More constant.
During lunch, I sit at the edge of a table, picking at my food, listening to conversations that do not involve me. I do not interrupt. I never do. Interrupting feels like crossing a line I am not invited to step over.
That is the thing about my bubble. It does not only keep people out. It keeps me in.
When the final bell rings, I feel a familiar relief. School requires performance. Home is quieter.
As I walk back, I notice Sam before I notice anything else. He is leaning against the fence this time, talking to someone I assume is his mother. He nods as she speaks, listening in a way that looks effortless. When she goes inside, he stays there for a moment, staring at the street.
I hesitate.
There is no reason to stop walking. No reason to look at him. No reason to acknowledge his presence again. We already exchanged words once. That should be enough.
But my feet slow anyway.
I feel it immediately. That tightness in my chest. The familiar warning. Do not get close. Do not start something you cannot control. I could keep walking and nothing would change. That is the safest option.
Sam turns his head and notices me.
He does not smile right away. He just looks at me, calm and unguarded, like he expects me to be there.
"Hey," he says again.
The word lands differently this time. Less surprising. More real.
"Hi," I reply, my voice softer than I expect.
He nods, like that is enough, like he is not trying to push the moment into something bigger. There is a pause, but it is not uncomfortable. It just exists.
"I am Sam," he says finally.
"I know," I admit before thinking. Then I realize how that sounds. "I mean. I heard my mom mention it."
He smiles at that. Not wide. Not dramatic. Just a small curve of understanding.
"Bora, right?"
I freeze for half a second. My name feels too personal in his mouth, like it has crossed the surface of my bubble without asking.
"Yes."
He leans back against the fence, relaxed. "You have a quiet way of walking. I almost missed you the first time."
I do not know how to respond to that. No one has ever described me like that before.
"Oh," I say.
He does not seem bothered by my lack of conversation. If anything, he seems comfortable with it. That makes me more nervous than someone filling the silence would.
"So," he says, glancing toward my house, then back at me. "You have lived here long?"
"All my life."
"That explains it," he says.
"Explains what?"
He shrugs lightly. "You look like you belong here."
The words settle somewhere deep inside me. Belonging is not something I have ever associated with myself. I do not know whether to like the idea or distrust it.
Before I can respond, my mom's voice calls my name from inside the house. I feel the familiar pull of retreat. An excuse. A way out.
"I should go," I say quickly.
"Yeah," Sam replies easily. "See you around, Bora."
I nod and walk away, my heart beating faster than it should over such a small interaction.
Inside my room, the silence feels different again. Not heavier. Just altered. Like something has shifted slightly out of place.
That night, I think about his words more than I want to. About the way he did not rush me. The way he seemed content with whatever I gave him. One word. Two words. Silence.
Most people try to fill the space around me. Sam did not.
That scares me.
Over the next week, our interactions stay small. A greeting at the fence. A nod when our paths cross. Sometimes nothing at all. And yet, those moments follow me through my day.
I catch myself wondering what he is doing. What he is thinking. Whether he notices when I am not around.
I do not like wondering.
One evening, I find him sitting on the steps again, staring up at the sky. I stop without realizing it.
"Does it ever answer?" I ask, surprising both of us.
He looks at me, then laughs softly. "Not yet."
I sit on the edge of the fence, keeping distance, but not leaving. The air between us feels calm. Unforced.
We sit there for a while without speaking.
It should feel awkward. It does not.
For the first time in a long while, the bubble around me feels less like a shield and more like a question.
And I do not know how to answer it.