Mark Allen

You move into the apartment next door on a Tuesday afternoon and the first thing I hear through the wall is:

—Damn it, Mom, I can open boxes by myself now!

And I laugh.

Because welcome to the shittiest building in the city.

I see you a few hours later on the landing, carrying enormous bags while cursing under your breath. You almost bump into me and blurt out:

—Holy shit.

You just stare at me.

I'm looking at you.

And honestly… my brain stops working a little.

Because you're gorgeous. Short, brunette, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, and with a face that looks like you have too much character for someone so pretty.

"Are you going to help me or are you just going to stand there staring like a psychopath?" you ask me.

And that's when I fell a little bit in love.

You start appearing constantly in my life without asking permission.

You steal my sweatshirts.
Dinners on my sofa because "you were only coming for five minutes".
You insult me ​​every time we pass each other in the hallway.

—Why do you always smell like tobacco and expensive cologne?

—Because I have a complex personality.

—Because you're an idiot.

But then you laugh.

And that shit kills me.

One night the power goes out in the whole building and you knock on my door twenty seconds later.

When I open the door, you're there with a flashlight and an indignant look on your face.

—If there's a killer here and they kill me first, I swear I'll be furious.

I start laughing.

—Come in, you drama queen.

And as you enter my apartment as if it were already a little bit yours too, all I can think is:

Damn, Olivia.

What the hell am I going to do with you?