"Some people hide behind doors.Others behind smiles.But me?I hide behind glass."— Nawin
Nawin had lived in that apartment for three years and never learned a single neighbor's name. He liked it that way. People were loud, messy. People asked questions.
His world was simple: four walls, two windows, a kitchen too small to cook in, and a bathroom mirror he hadn't looked into in months. Silence was safer. Silence didn't remind him of what he used to be.
The man next door arrived on a Wednesday, carrying nothing but two duffel bags and a guitar case with a broken strap. Nawin saw him from the peephole—tall, pale, tired-looking. A long scar disappeared into the back of his shirt collar like it didn't want to be seen.
Nawin didn't open the door. He just watched as the man fumbled with his keys, cursed softly, and disappeared into Unit 5B.
That night, for the first time in months, Nawin couldn't sleep.
The man had a habit of sitting by his window every evening, elbows on the sill, eyes tilted toward the sky. He never closed the blinds. Never looked at his phone. Just sat there, watching the sun go down like it was a ritual. Or a goodbye.
Nawin told himself not to care. He wasn't curious. He wasn't lonely.
He just happened to glance over sometimes. That's all.
One day, there was a note at Nawin's door. Folded neatly, no name.
"You always watch the sunset, too."
No handwriting. Just printed letters in black ink. No smiley face. No signature.
His stomach knotted. He hadn't realized the man could see him too.
For a full hour, Nawin sat in the dark, blinds closed, heart pounding. Then slowly—almost unwillingly—he opened them again. Just a sliver. Just enough.
The man was already looking at him.
Not smiling. Not waving. Just… watching.
Nawin didn't look away.
The next note came a week later, left in front of his door in the same folded square.
"You look sad in the mornings."
It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't friendly.It was… something else. Like the man wasn't trying to get to know Nawin—he was trying to understand him. Dissect him.
That night, Nawin wrote back.
"So do you."
He slid it under the door of Unit 5B without thinking. Then panicked for hours. But there was no knock. No voice. Only silence.
Until the next sunset.
Then, the man nodded once.
Like a secret handshake.
Days blurred. Notes turned into glances. Glances into conversations through the wall. Little things: Do you play guitar? "Not well." You cook? "When I can eat."
It was strange, how easily loneliness could feel like intimacy.
But Nawin never gave his name. Neither did the man.
They existed only in shadows—between the blinds, behind the walls, in the spaces no one else looked.
One night, Nawin had a nightmare. The kind that left you shaking long after you wake up. He didn't scream, but he sat bolt upright, breath caught in his throat.
When he looked toward the window, the man next door was already standing at his.
Watching him.
Nawin didn't wave.
He closed the blinds.
Final lines of Chapter One:
The next morning, there was no note.
Just a mark on his door. A smudge, like a fingerprint dragged down the surface.
Like someone had reached for him—and changed their mind.