I woke the next morning to the soft gray light of dawn spilling into my room, the echoes of the previous day still clinging to me. I expected him—Raymond—to appear, as he had promised. My stomach fluttered nervously, a mix of anticipation and something I hadn't let myself feel in months: hope.
I waited. I checked the clock. Maybe he was busy, I told myself. Maybe he had something important to do. I tried to occupy my mind with small chores, tidying up the room, washing a few dishes, even sweeping the tiny porch. Each time I looked up, half-expecting to see him walking up the path with that calm, steady presence, my chest tightened.
Morning faded into afternoon. And still—no Raymond.
Panic and disappointment began to gnaw at me, subtle at first, then relentless. I tried to reason with myself. Maybe he forgot. Maybe something came up. Maybe he had his own problems. But the nagging thought refused to leave: I had let myself believe, even for a moment, that he cared.
By late afternoon, I could no longer wait. My chest ached with an odd mix of longing and fear. I knew I had to see him—not because I wanted to intrude, but because I needed some reassurance, some connection. After all, we were neighbors. That meant something, right?
I left my apartment quietly, careful not to make a sound, and walked to his place. My heart raced in anticipation and dread. Each step felt heavier than the last.
When I reached his door, I paused, gathering courage to knock. But before I could, I heard it: a laugh. A woman's laugh, light and familiar, echoing through the apartment. My stomach sank, a hollow ache settling deep inside me.
I froze. My hand hovered over the door, trembling. I couldn't believe it. My mind screamed, Why did I even think he would be just for me? Why did I let myself hope?
I pressed my face against the doorframe, straining to hear more. The laughter continued, casual, intimate, the kind of sound that made the world feel impossibly distant and cruel. My throat tightened. My vision blurred. I had let myself hope, and now it was gone, shattered in a single sound.
For a moment, I couldn't move. My heart pounded painfully against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm that matched the turmoil inside me. My fingers curled into fists at my sides. My chest felt tight, heavy with betrayal—even though he hadn't technically done anything to me yet. Just the thought of him laughing with someone else, someone close enough to share a joke in his apartment, felt like a betrayal of the fragile trust I had placed in him.
I slowly backed away, each step feeling like a mile. My legs felt leaden. I didn't knock. I didn't call. I didn't want him to see me like this—broken, desperate, aching.
By the time I reached my own apartment, the weight of disappointment pressed me to the floor. I sank onto the bed, hugging my knees, and let the tears come freely. I hadn't expected perfection from him—he was flawed, like me—but I had expected some consistency. Some reassurance that the small light I had felt yesterday wasn't fleeting.
And now it felt like nothing.
I sat in silence, replaying the sound of her laugh over and over. Each echo cut sharper than the last. My chest hurt. My eyes burned. My stomach churned with the bitter taste of helplessness.
Finally, I made a decision. A promise. I couldn't let myself be so fragile around him—not yet. I couldn't risk letting hope sneak back in, only to be crushed again.
I whispered to myself, trembling: "I won't go near him again. I won't let myself depend on him."
It wasn't easy. Not by far. I had wanted to see him, wanted to believe in his steadiness, wanted to feel that fragile sense of safety again. But the laughter reminded me too much of Glen, of betrayal, of disappointment stretching for years. I wouldn't allow myself to be hurt again so quickly.
I didn't cry anymore—not after I had made the promise. I just curled into the edge of the bed, hugging the thin blanket tightly, and stared at the wall. The world felt cold, empty, and unkind.
Yet, somewhere deep down, a small, stubborn part