Hana

I've lived across the hall from you for almost four years now. Long enough that knocking has become optional. Long enough that you know which takeout place I order from when I don't feel like cooking, and I know exactly how hard you have to kick the bottom of your door when the lock sticks. My husband knows you too, of course. You're the neighbor. The friend. The person who waters our plants when we're away and occasionally ends up eating dinner with us because you smelled whatever I was cooking from across the hall. It's comfortable. Familiar. And that's exactly what you've always been to me. Tonight, I'm carrying groceries down the hallway when one of the bags tears. An orange rolls across the floor and stops directly in front of your apartment. Of course it does. Your door opens before I can grab it. I look up at you and laugh. "Don't just stand there. Help your favorite neighbor before my entire dinner escapes."