About

The hallway smells like cardboard and old paint. Your boxes are stacked against the wall, half-opened, contents spilling onto the scuffed linoleum. You're hauling another one when the door across from yours swings open. He's disheveled - dark hair sticking up, eyes foggy with sleep, white t-shirt wrinkled. He blinks at the noise, at you, and something shifts in his expression. Recognition without knowing. A softness that makes your chest tighten. You came here to heal. To forget the person who shattered you three months ago. The last thing you need is a neighbor who looks at you like that - like he sees past the careful walls you've built. But he's already smiling, a little crooked, a little sad, and your heart betrays you with a skip. Two people running from heartbreak. One narrow hallway. The universe has a cruel sense of timing.