Meet Dak

I slammed the door behind me, my hand still gripping the handle like it might somehow undo the last ten minutes of my life.

It didn’t.

Instead, I turned and started pacing the length of my apartment like a man on the verge of spontaneous combustion. My pulse was racing. My thoughts were a tangled, useless mess. I dragged a hand through my hair in frustration because my brain had officially stopped functioning like it belonged to a rational human.

Meanwhile, Max sauntered in like he owned the place, kicked off his shoes, and flopped onto my couch with the ease of a man settling in for premium entertainment.

“This can’t be happening,” I muttered, still pacing.

Max grinned. “Oh, but it is.”

I spun on him, jabbing a finger in his direction. “She. Lives. Across. The. Hall.”

Max exhaled a happy, deeply irritating sigh. “This is better than reality TV.”

The Five Stages of Grief: Dak Edition

Denial: I stopped pacing, arms crossed, voice firm. “There’s no way she knew I lived here. No way. Right?”

Max shrugged. “I mean, it’s a big city. What are the odds?”

I pointed aggressively. “Exactly! No way she knew.”

Anger: I threw my hands up. “Who moves into their ex’s building? That’s deranged behavior.”

Max, nodding sagely. “Yeah, yeah. She’s the unhinged one.”

Bargaining: I resumed pacing, faster now. “Maybe she’s just crashing here. A week … month, tops. She’ll be gone.”

Max stretched out, propping his feet on my coffee table like he had all the time in the world. “Yeah, that seems likely.”

Depression: I slumped against the counter, staring at my fridge like it might offer me guidance. “I can’t even walk to my own door without possibly running into her. My home is compromised.”

Max, matter-of-factly, “Nah, you’re fucked.”

I groaned.

Max, watching me unravel like a cheap sweater in a washing machine, said, “Okay, serious question—are you still in love with her, or just mad?”

I scoffed. “Neither.”

Max raised a brow. “Mmm. Lying. Classic.”

“I’m over it.”

Max smirked. “Right. That’s why you’re spiraling like a Real Housewife right now.”

Pacing wasn’t helping, so I started pumping my fists, too.

“Listen, man. You have two options.” He held up two fingers. “Be cool about this or move.”

I blinked. “No third option?”

“Nope.”

“Cool, cool. I’ll go pack.”

Max grabbed a beer from my fridge. “You’re not moving.”

“You don’t know that.”

Max popped the top and took a sip. “Because you’re lazy, and you have a two year lease.”

I exhaled sharply. “You are not a supportive friend.”

Max grinned. “No, but I am an honest one.”

I started pacing again, running through my flawless strategy. “I just … I need to avoid her. That’s it. Simple.”

Max, casually flipping through his phone. “Oh, fun fact. You guys probably share a wall.”

I froze mid-step. “What?”

Max gestured lazily toward my bedroom. “You’re at the end of the hall, not the end of the building. You share a wall. Your bed? Probably right against hers.”

Silence.

Absolute, crushing silence.

Then, finally, I muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Max clinked his beer against mine. “Cheers to your new nightmare.”

SATURDAY 6:03 PM

I had one job. Avoid Angelica.

And for an entire day, I nailed it.

I didn’t leave my apartment. Ordered food instead of cooking. Kept the TV on low, avoided unnecessary movement, and basically went feral in my own home just to dodge an awkward encounter.

By 6:00 PM, the silence was suffocating. I wasn’t even hungry, but I needed to do something. Grab the mail, maybe. Toss a load of laundry in. Something simple, low-risk.

I opened my door.

And right on cue, Angelica’s door swung open too.

For a single, horrifying second, we both froze.

The hallway was too bright, too normal—completely indifferent to the personal crisis unfolding in real time.

Angelica was holding a tote bag, keys in hand, mid-step. She blinked, then recovered way too quickly.

“Oh,” she said, her voice effortlessly casual. “Hey.”

I swallowed. “Hey.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and unbearable.

Angelica shifted slightly, filling the space with pointless, polite small talk. “Getting mail?”

I stared at her, deadpan. “No, I just really enjoy standing in doorways.”

She smirked, shaking her head. “Good to know you haven’t changed.”

The problem was, she had. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe I just hadn’t seen her in so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be around her.

Because suddenly, I was painfully aware of everything.

The way her golden-blonde hair caught the overhead lighting. The smooth confidence in her stance, like running into me was just an interesting footnote in her evening instead of the full-blown natural disaster it was for me.

And the worst part?

She smelled the same. That familiar mix of vanilla and something floral. It was a scent I hadn’t thought about in months. And now the only thing I smelled.

I screamed internally.

Angelica, conversely, appeared remarkably calm. She glanced past me toward my apartment; expression unreadable.

“So, you still live here,” she mused. “Thought you might’ve moved since yesterday.”

My jaw tensed. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Angelica’s lips twitched, just the smallest hint of amusement, before she shot back, “Guess neither of us did.”

I exhaled sharply. “Guess not.”

The elevator dinged at the end of the hall. A door opened somewhere, muffled voices carrying from another floor.

Life was still happening, completely unaware of the absolute disaster unfolding in my chest.

Angelica adjusted her bag, stepping past me like this was just any other interaction with any other person.

It wasn’t.

I knew it.

She knew it.

But she kept walking anyway.

I stood there, completely bothered, watching her disappear down the hall. Like she hadn’t just detonated a year of my denial in thirty seconds flat. I didn’t know what burned more—the memory, or how damn normal she made it look.

Back in my apartment, I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. Pulled out my phone.

Text from Dak: “This is hell.”

Text from Max: “I know. And I love it.”