Chapter 1: The Girl Next Door

The girl next door was an elementary school teacher—her skin always seemed to have a sun-kissed glow from playground duty, and she had legs that could probably outrun half her students. She was gorgeous, sure, but there was something about her that made her feel familiar, like someone you’d grown up with, even if you hadn’t. She had that easygoing, girl-next-door vibe, but with a Southern charm you just didn’t see much up north. Sometimes, after a long day, she’d come home humming, give a little wave in the hallway, her smile bright enough to make the drab apartment corridor feel less like a dungeon. Most evenings, I’d spot her through my blinds, humming to herself as she juggled her keys and a battered tote bag, looking like she was in on some joke the rest of us had missed. She was the kind of neighbor who made you wish you’d taken out the trash—just for the excuse to run into her by the mailboxes. If my luck was any worse, I’d probably have to start inventing reasons to check the mail twice a day.

Her Southern roots gave her a kind of warmth you didn’t find often in Chicago. That easy drawl, the way she’d offer a smile to everyone, set her apart. When she flashed that grin in the hallway, it was like someone flipped on the lights in the whole building. I’d pause, halfway to my own door, thinking I should’ve timed my return better—maybe I’d have a shot at a little small talk by the mailboxes. Her ever-present tote bag, decorated with faded stickers and a fraying strap, swung at her side. She made you wish you’d remembered to check for packages, just so you’d have a reason to linger.

One night, she knocked on my door. She hesitated, fidgeting with the strap of her bag, then looked up with a shy smile. "Hey, could we... maybe split the rent?"

Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, like she was afraid I’d burst out laughing. The old hallway light flickered overhead, making her cheeks look even more flushed, and for a second, I wondered if this was some elaborate prank.

"Wait, what? Aren’t we already splitting the rent?" I blurted, a nervous laugh escaping before I could stop it.

I tried to act like I wasn’t thrown, but my heart did a weird little flip. I looked at her, trying to see if she was messing with me. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the distant thump of a neighbor’s TV and the whine of pipes in the walls.

Rachel’s hand shot up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She stammered, "I mean... the two of us sharing the same bed."

She stared at her shoes like they held the answer, shuffling her feet. For a moment, it felt like gravity had shifted under my feet. My brain tried to reboot, but all I could think was: Did she just say what I think she said?

After graduating, I packed up my life and moved to Chicago for a job at a logistics company downtown. I ended up renting an apartment with three strangers—none of whom I’d met until move-in day. The whole thing was a gamble, but the rent was right.

The move itself was a blur—boxes crammed into the back of a borrowed pickup, my buddy’s old Cubs cap jammed on my head, and the city skyline looming in the distance, both promising and a little intimidating. I barely had time to unpack before work swallowed me whole. The apartment complex was old, with faded brick, creaky elevators that always smelled like dust and leftover Chinese takeout. But it was cheap—and in Chicago, cheap was as rare as a parking spot in the Loop, so I wasn’t about to complain.

The place was out in Logan Square, a three-bedroom apartment in a dated complex with carpets older than me. I lucked into the master bedroom, which came with its own bathroom. The other two rooms went to a couple and a young woman I barely saw.

My room was the only real perk—a battered but private bathroom, and a sliding door that led out to a narrow balcony. Sometimes the L train would shake the whole building as it thundered by, and if I leaned out far enough, I could watch it rattle past. The couple next door were up and gone before sunrise, never making a peep. The third roommate—who I’d eventually learn was Rachel—kept to herself, her door always closed, but you’d catch a faint whiff of vanilla and laundry detergent trailing in the hallway. That was about all I knew.

Chicago life didn’t slow down for anyone. The morning commute was a battle with wind and crowds, and by the time I got home, the sky was already dark. Even though we shared a roof, everyone left early and got back late. After work, we’d all disappear into our rooms, doors clicking shut—each of us our own little island.

Sometimes, I’d hear muffled laughter from the couple’s room, or the faint, tinny sound of Rachel’s TV through the wall. But mostly, it was like living with friendly ghosts. The kitchen was always spotless, the living room deserted except for a pile of unopened junk mail. We were all just passing through, orbiting the same cramped space but never really colliding. I used to joke with myself that I was sharing an apartment with poltergeists.

For the longest time, I didn’t even know my roommates’ names. It was embarrassing—almost a running gag with my friends back home. I’d tell them, "Yeah, I live with ‘the couple’ and ‘the girl next door.’" Sometimes I wondered if my roommates even knew my name, or if I was just "the guy who never leaves his room."

That all changed one day when I found a work ID outside our door. It read: "Chicago Public School District, Rachel Gomez," with a photo of the girl next door.

The badge was wedged between the welcome mat and the doorframe—she must’ve dropped it in a mad dash. The photo caught her mid-smile, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She looked earnest, like the kind of teacher who actually cares if you remember your multiplication tables.

So her name was Rachel Gomez, and she was an elementary school teacher. That little piece of plastic made her feel more real—less like a background extra in my life, more like someone with her own story to tell.

I noticed another card tucked behind her badge, and curiosity got the best of me. It said she was from Jackson, Mississippi, and twenty-seven years old. I blinked, letting that sink in.

Jackson, Mississippi. That explained the gentle Southern twang in her voice, and the way she always seemed so polite—even when she was still in pajamas and half-awake. Twenty-seven—not much older than me, but she carried herself with a quiet confidence I hadn’t managed yet. I still felt like a college kid faking adulthood most days.

Rachel stood about 5'7", with delicate, striking features that drew your attention even when she was in sweats. Her legs, long and toned, seemed to go on forever, especially when she was standing on tiptoe to reach something in the kitchen. I’d catch myself staring, then look away before she noticed.

She moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d spent years dancing or running track. I’d sometimes see her out on the balcony, stretching with earbuds in, completely lost in her own world. Somehow, she made even Target sweatpants look like something off a fashion runway—which honestly felt a little unfair to the rest of us.

When I returned her cards, Rachel thanked me with a shy smile and handed me a bag of Southern snacks—pecan pralines and homemade cornbread muffins, still wrapped in wax paper and warm from the oven.

She smiled, her cheeks turning pink as she handed over the bag. "My mama swears by these. You’ve gotta try ‘em—real Southern comfort food." The pralines were so sweet and buttery they almost made my teeth hurt, and the cornbread was warm enough to melt the butter I slathered on top. For a few minutes, the apartment felt a little less like a crash pad and a little more like home.

Life in the apartment was pretty decent—until the sub-landlord started getting greedy. He didn’t say a word, just brought in a crew and started building partitions in the living room and even the storage closet. Suddenly, everyone was on edge.

The racket started early on a Saturday—hammers and drills echoing down the hallway, the place filling with the smell of fresh paint and drywall dust. I watched in disbelief as the living room shrank, new walls popping up where there’d been open space just days before. The storage closet—barely big enough for a broom—was suddenly being called a "room" and thrown up for rent. It was like watching a magic trick, except it made your life worse.

He crammed two bunk beds into the living room, turning it into a makeshift dorm for four girls, who rolled in with their duffel bags by the end of the week. The storage closet barely fit a cot, but that didn’t stop him from renting it out to a guy who looked like he regretted every life choice that brought him here.

Overnight, the apartment turned into a college housing nightmare. New girls squeezed into the living room, their laughter echoing off the walls, and the poor guy in the closet couldn’t even stand up straight. The hallways reeked of hairspray and instant noodles. It was chaos.

Just like that, nine people were jammed into one apartment. What started as a shared rental turned into a full-blown crowded living situation.

The kitchen became a war zone—crumbs everywhere, mysterious sticky patches on the counter, and dirty dishes stacked so high you risked an avalanche every time you tried to add another. The fridge was so jam-packed you had to wedge your milk in sideways and pray it didn’t fall out. Privacy was a joke, and even the walls felt like they were closing in.

The bathroom became a hot commodity. Every morning and night, we had to line up just to brush our teeth or shower. You’d think we were waiting for concert tickets, not a sink.

Sticky notes plastered the bathroom door, each one with someone’s "reserved time" scribbled in Sharpie. Someone even taped a kitchen timer to the door, but nobody ever set it. It didn’t take long for folks to start banging on the door, yelling for whoever was inside to hurry the hell up.

The worst part? Seven out of the nine of us were women, and somehow each one took longer in the bathroom than the last. Sometimes I’d wait so long I thought I’d grow a beard before my turn.

I’d hear the blow dryer going for what felt like hours, or someone belting out off-key pop songs in the shower. The wait was brutal—especially when you were desperate. We all started joking, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

It was enough to drive anyone nuts. Let’s be real—when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Some days, I’d give up and brush my teeth in the kitchen sink, just like back in my freshman dorm days. Which, by the way, is never as glamorous as it sounds—especially when someone’s leftover ramen is floating nearby.

Every time I heard another shouting match break out in the hallway, I silently thanked my lucky stars for the master bedroom. Forget winning the lottery—this was the real jackpot.

My room had more than just a private bathroom; it had a tiny balcony where I could grow a pot of daisies, hang my socks to dry, and sip coffee while pretending I was in a fancy high-rise.

On Sunday mornings, I’d sit out there with a mug of coffee, watching the city wake up. The balcony barely fit a folding chair and a planter, but it was enough. The L would clatter by, pigeons would coo, and for a few minutes, the world felt manageable.

Once my door was closed, it was like I had my own little universe. No drama, no noise—just me and the view.

It was my hideaway from the madness—a little slice of peace carved out of the chaos. Sometimes I’d just stand there, coffee in hand, and think, "Yeah, this is good enough for me."

One night, I was deep into a late-night video game match, headset on, when a knock rattled my door. I jumped, nearly losing the round. I hit pause, took a shaky breath, and peeled off my headphones, wondering who could possibly need me at this hour.

I opened the door to find Rachel standing there. She looked tiny and out of sorts in her oversized, pastel pajamas, hair wild and half in her face. She hugged herself, swaying on her feet like she’d just finished a marathon.

Her pajamas were covered in little cartoon clouds, her hair a mess, eyes wide and glassy. She leaned against the doorframe, legs trembling like she might collapse any second.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, pleading. She was barely holding it together, and before I knew it, I’d reached out to steady her, my hand landing on her arm without thinking.

I grabbed her arm to steady her. "What’s wrong? You okay?"

Her arm was tense, skin clammy, and she looked away, cheeks burning as she caught her breath, her hands twisting in the fabric of her pajama top.

Her cheeks were bright red. She bit her lip and stammered, "Dylan, can I use your bathroom?"

She barely got the words out, her voice trembling with desperation. I nodded, still trying to process what was happening.

"Of course," I said, a little surprised, my mind scrambling for something normal to say.

I stepped aside, waving her toward the bathroom. She shot me a grateful look and darted inside, shutting the door with a soft click.

She murmured thanks, hurried inside, and closed the door. The sound of water running soon followed.

The water echoed through my room, weirdly intimate in the quiet. I found myself staring at the closed door, my imagination running wild.

That sound sent a jolt straight to my chest. I tried to distract myself, but my thoughts kept circling back to Rachel.

I shook my head and forced myself to focus on the city lights outside, but every little sound from the bathroom had my heart racing.

After a few minutes, Rachel came out, looking like she’d just survived a battle—her shoulders relaxed, eyes full of relief.

She leaned against the doorframe, catching her breath, her cheeks still pink but her eyes grateful. I tried to act cool, but I could feel my ears burning.

"Thank you, Dylan," she said, breathless. "If you hadn’t helped, I don’t know what I would’ve done... I could barely walk. The main bathroom was a war zone. From now on, I swear I’m cutting back on water before bed."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Honestly, I thought I was gonna die out there."

"No problem," I replied, trying to sound chill. "Seriously, it’s no big deal."

I tried to play it off, but I was still a little flustered. Helping her felt good, but it also made things weirdly real between us.

"Really?" Her face lit up. "You’re a lifesaver!"

She gave me a dazzling, genuine smile. I tried to shrug it off, but my heart was doing somersaults.

I’d only meant to be polite, but she seemed to take it as a real offer.

It dawned on me that she might actually keep coming back. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a disaster waiting to happen.

Sure enough, after the first time, there was a second... and then it became routine. Rachel would knock at all hours, sometimes apologizing, sometimes just breezing past me with a sleepy wave. I got used to the sound of her slippers in the hall.

At first, she’d always wait for me to answer before coming in. Later, she’d just tap twice—her signature knock—and slip inside, barely checking if I was busy. It started to feel like some weird, domestic sitcom.

One time, I was halfway through changing shirts when she barged in. I scrambled for the nearest towel, clutching it around my waist like a lifeline. The moment was so awkward I wanted to melt into the floor.

My face turned beet red. I mumbled something about privacy, wishing I could disappear. Rachel froze, then burst out laughing, the tension dissolving in an instant.

She was startled at first, then covered her mouth and giggled. "Sorry!" she called, then strolled into the bathroom like nothing had happened, leaving me clutching my dignity.

She didn’t seem fazed at all—just flashed a mischievous grin and vanished into the bathroom. I stood there, heart pounding, wondering how she could be so chill.

One night, she showed up at my door again—this time with bottles of body wash and shampoo in hand, holding them up with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, Dylan. The other bathroom’s out of hot water again."

She gave me a sheepish look, waving her toiletries like a white flag. "Seriously, the hot water’s dead again. I’m about to lose it."

Water started running in the bathroom, and through the frosted glass I could make out her silhouette—hazy, real, and somehow a little magical.

I tried to focus on my phone, but my eyes kept drifting to the steam curling around the door, the air filling with the scent of her shampoo—something sweet and citrusy that made the whole room feel warmer.

Watching her shadow and hearing the water, I found it impossible to keep my cool. My mind was racing, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

My thoughts spun out of control. It was like a scene straight out of a rom-com, except I was painfully aware of every awkward, nerve-wracking second.

For a split second, I had the totally inappropriate urge to crack the door and peek inside—like my brain had short-circuited and was running on sitcom logic.

I imagined what it would be like to actually do it, and instantly my cheeks went nuclear. I jerked my gaze away, ashamed of even thinking it.

It was a dangerous line to even consider—like staring at a "Wet Paint" sign and wondering what would happen if you touched it.

The temptation was real, but I kept myself glued to my chair, hands clenched in my lap, willing myself to focus on literally anything else.

I forced my gaze away, but the embarrassment was so intense that my nose started to tingle—next thing I knew, I had a nosebleed. Classic stress reaction. Great timing, right?

I scrambled for tissues, cursing my luck. Seriously—of all the times for a nosebleed, it had to be now?

And then, just to top it all off, the lights flickered out, plunging the room into total darkness.

The blackout hit like a punch. The only thing I could hear was the L rattling by outside, and my own pulse in my ears.

"Ah!" Rachel shrieked from the bathroom. There was a beat of silence, then: "Dylan, why did you turn off the lights?"

Her voice echoed, shaky and a little panicked. I fumbled for words, trying to sound calm.

"It wasn’t me—must be a power outage. This happened last month too. I’ll check the breaker, but I don’t have the landlord’s number."

I fumbled with my phone flashlight, tripping over shoes in the dark. The apartment felt even smaller with the lights out.

"What do I do?" Rachel called, her voice anxious. "I’ve only washed half my hair and now there’s no hot water!"

I pictured her, shivering, hair full of shampoo, and felt a weird urge to laugh and groan at the same time.

I thought fast. "Hang on—I’ll boil some water in the kitchen. You can mix it with cold and finish washing up. Sound good?"

I tried to sound upbeat, hoping to keep her spirits up. No way was I letting her suffer through that.