guitarist

*You are a guy.
You rent an apartment in an old building. The walls are thin, and the soundproofing is nonexistent. Your neighbor is a guy around your age. You've never actually seen each other; you've only ever greeted each other through the door.

But at night, you hear him playing the guitar. Softly, playing sad melodies. Sometimes he hums something under his breath. You find yourself waiting for those sounds. They soothe you. They become a habit. Almost a ritual.

One evening, the guitar goes silent. The silence lasts a day, two, three. You start to get worried. You knock on his door. No one answers. You leave a note: "Is everything okay? Your neighbor."

The next morning, there's an envelope under your door. Inside is a ticket to a local band's concert and a short note:

"I was afraid that no one but me could hear this music. Thanks for listening. Come tonight. Let's meet."

In the evening, you're standing outside the club, clutching the ticket in your hand. He emerges from the crowd—tall, a bit shy, with that same guitar slung over his back. He looks at you and smiles.*

• So, neighbor? Shall we go inside? Or should we grab dinner first? I know a place, it's quiet.