There it is again – the soft thudding of music coming from next door. Jumping up from my position on the couch, I go into my room and sit on my bed, leaning against the wall it is against.

“You’re such a weirdo, Klyde,” one of my roommates, Cody mutters from his bed on the other side of the room. I vaguely wave my hand in his direction as I try to make out the song that is playing. I decide that I don’t recognize it, but I listen anyway.

This has been a…a ‘habit’ of mine, you might say, for a long while now. It started a few months ago, which was a few days after our neighbor had moved in. He was playing really loud music, but it was a song I liked, so I didn’t complain. Since then, he’s been playing music more and more often, and though it’s quieter than the first time, I always sit and listen.

Through his music (which is very similar to my own music collection), I almost feel as though we’ve grown some sort of special connection. Of course, it’s not true, because I’ll bet our neighbor doesn’t even know of my existence. But it’s still…nice…

The music stops and I sigh, turning to sit with my back to the wall. This makes me face Cody.

“Why don’t you just listen to your own damn music?” he says, though it’s in good fun.

Currently, I live in a two bedroom apartment, shared with three other people aside from myself. Cody shares a room with me, and then Ken and Ricardo share the other room. We’ve all been friends since high school, now fresh out of high school, and we decided to waste away our lives together in a little apartment, and barely make ends meet together. Only Ken is going to college, to become a computer engineer, so we’ll have to mooch off of him when we’re older.

After a moment, I hear a door slam. I immediately rush to the front door and glance out the peephole. But, I don’t see anyone, and realize the sound came from downstairs. Sighing, I plop onto the couch next to Ricardo.

This goes along with the music; ever since I started feeling closer to our neighbor, I’d try to go out and see him when he went places. I’ve succeeded a fair few times, too. He has scruffy, layered black hair that just brushes against his shoulders, and he always has a serious look on his face. I’d also say that he’s about twenty-five years old.

However, I have a small fear of him seeing me. He leaves at about the same time every morning (at ten o’clock; to go to work, I would imagine) and if I need to go anywhere, I always try to leave after that time. Then by seven or eight in the evening, he comes home – I always try to avoid leaving or coming back from somewhere at this time as well.

What I think my phobia of seeing him mostly roots from is the fact that I’m a scrawny little nothing. Cody’s a sporty and cool kind of guy; Ken is a professional and calm kind of guy; and Ricardo is a tall and tough kind of guy. Then, me…I’m a…wimpy, short and pale kind of guy. Come to think of it, I’m not really sure how all of us fell into the same crowd.

Anyway, there’s no way I could face my neighbor; he’d pass me off as some stupid little kid immediately, and I couldn’t bear that.

--

The next morning, a Sunday, I awake to the sound of solid footsteps making their way up the rickety steps to the two upstairs apartment units (mine and my neighbors). Usually, this isn’t unusual; my three roommates go in and out occasionally, and the neighbor has people over frequently, but as I glance to the clock on my bedside and spot the bold 5:27 that it displays, I quickly mark this situation as odd.

Groggily pushing myself out of my bed, I make my way to the front door and look out the peephole. No one’s there in the outdoor hallway that connects the front doors of me and the neighbor, along with the stairs. I also can make out fading footsteps going down.

However, upon further inspection, I spot a newspaper lying on the neighbor’s doormat, wrapped in a thin yellow plastic bag. My eyes light up a bit, and I glance at our kitchen clock to make sure – 5:28. The neighbor shouldn’t be coming out the door for another four and a half hours…but I’ve never seen a newspaper on his doorstep before…

Deciding not to do anything in accordance to this seemingly new event, I wait and settle on studying this.

Over the next few weeks, I go about my business as per usual, and I realize that now, every week, the neighbor gets the Sunday paper. It’s delivered at about 5:30, and then he comes out to get it at about 6:10. Every Sunday. So after a while, I find it perfectly plausible that I could just go up to the paper and sneak a glimpse at it, just to catch his name. I have grown quite weary of calling him, ‘the neighbor’.

So, four Sundays after the first delivery of his paper, at 5:45, I quietly slip out of the front door. I leave it open a smidgen and creep over to his doorstep. Kneeling down next to his paper, I search for the little sticker that says his name. I’m able to glance at it -- luckily it’s a short name, so I see his first name is Mark, though I don’t get the last – before the door in front of me swings open to reveal a rumpled-looking neighbor (well, Mark, now).

Words completely fail me as I look up at him, who’s looking down at me, crouched on the floor, looking up at him, looking at me.

“What are you doing?” Mark says slowly and deliberately as he raises an eyebrow.

“I—I just—” I’m about to make the lamest excuse of my life. “I was going to get the mail, y’know, when, when I came out here, I saw—on your paper, I saw a ladybug…and y’know, y’know, I really like ladybugs so I couldn’t—leave it all alone…”

Ducking my head, I knew my face had to be beat red. Luckily (or something), I looked like a little kid, so he might believe me.

Mark scoffs, “Mm-hmm. Just get away from my paper and go get your mail.”

Nodding, I jump up and rush downstairs. My heart is beating ninety miles an hour. I can barely think – I’ve just come this close to the man I’d grown my strange, one-sided connection with! My brain is still processing this fact as I take a swift walk around the apartment complex, unable to actually get our mail since I’m lacking my keys.

Once I get back, all traces of Mark and his paper are gone, which was to be expected, but it still seems strange. I shuffle back into my apartment, and see Ken sitting at the coffee table, eating breakfast.

“What happened?” he says as I sit next to him with a dull look on my face.

“Nothing,” I mutter, taking a piece of his toast and starting to munch on it.

“Something to do with Mr. Next-door Neighbor?” he asks, and I shoot a half-hearted glare at him.

“S’name’s Mark,” I say quietly, busying myself with the toast.

“Ah, his name is Mark, is it?” he replies with an amused smile on his face. “Dare I ask how you came about this information?”

I relay him the story in a small voice, and at the end, he tries and fails to sustain his laughter.

“Lad—ladybug?” he chuckles. “That’s a real good one, Klyde.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, my genius amazes even me,” I say bitterly and sarcastically.

Ken grins and puts a hand to my knee. “Don’t worry about it. He’s probably forgotten all about it by now.”

“Yeah,” I scoff.

--

It’s been a few weeks since the horrible incident, but nothing’s any different than from before. Mark plays his music; I listen. Mark goes to and comes back from work; I avoid leaving at these times. I haven’t seen him since, which I’m very grateful for.

Now, it’s later in the evening, and Mark is already home from work. I’m leaning against the wall we share, and contently reading a book as I hum along to his music, which is louder than usual today.

“Klyde, could you take out the trash?” Ken calls from the kitchen.

“Sure,” I reply, bouncing over to the trash can.

“You’re in a good mood,” Ken laughs as I pull out the trash bag and tie it.

“Mm-hmm,” I agree before lugging the trash to the front door.

It always makes me a little nervous to be out and about around here at night, seeing as this isn’t the safest place to live. But I’m comforted by the music flowing from Mark’s apartment.

Making my way down to the dumpster, I hear the sound of an idling car coming from around the corner, behind the dumpster. My heartbeat quickens a little, and as I shuffle into the little alley between the two dumpsters, I hear voices coming from the same direction as the car. They’re muffled, but I can hear the sound of gruff laughter.

Quickly, I haul the trash bag into the dumpster, before turning around to go back. A car door slams, then another one, and the voices speaking quieter, but they’re more clear. I walk out of the enclosure with the dumpsters, making as little noise as possible, when I come face to face with a small group of guys walking from the place in which they must have parked the car I previously heard idling.

“Hey,” one of the men spots me and I try to shrink back against the dumpster. “What’s a little kid like you doing out so late, eh?”

I didn’t reply, and it looked as if they were about to walk away when the one that first talked fell behind his buddies. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

Still, I remain silent, as the stranger backs me up against the (disgusting) dumpster, and he puts a hand above my shoulder, leaning in. I squeeze my eyes shut and tip my head down, hoping against hope that this would just go away.

There’s a scuffle of feet as the group back tracks over to me, and I feel the man in front of me put a hand to my hip. My arm immediately smacks his hand away, and I turn towards the exit from the dumpsters. I shove my way through the group of people, but someone’s arm comes out and shoves me back towards the man that touched me.

Trying to regain my sense of equilibrium, I suddenly hear a very loud, and hollow thump that is familiar to me as the sound of a heavy bag of trash hitting the empty bottom of a dumpster. I look up from where someone is roughly tugging on me and trying to bring me to my feet, and I catch a glimpse of Mark, and I suddenly feel at ease.

Mark shoves his way through the group and pushes off the guy who’s trying to drag me up, which consequentially causes me to drop back down onto the concrete.

“Oh, sorry, kid,” Mark winces as I hit the ground. He offers a hand to me, and as I take it (I’m touching him!), he gently pulls me up. He holds me to him, my back to his chest, and gives an acidic glare to everyone else standing around us. “Get out of here,” he growls.

They all (rather quickly) shuffle away and back around the corner.

“Are you okay?” Mark says softly, his lips right next to my ear.

My breathing is a little ragged, and it’s not just from the previous little scuffle. “I—I—”

“Come on,” Mark slips his hand in mine and slowly begins walking us back to the apartment. I cling lightly to his arm, my eyes focused on the ground.

We make our way up the stairs, and then we stand between the doors to our apartments.

“I should—go back…” I say almost inaudibly, despite still holding on to Mark. “Thank you, for helping me…” I didn’t want to say, ‘for saving me’ or, ‘for rescuing me’, like this was some fairytale.

Mark smiles. “Would you like to come in?” He motions to his door.

Shyly, I return the smile. Now, Mark and I could listen to music together; really together.