My hands tremble slightly as I stand in front of the door across the hall, clutching the cake box with both hands. The ribbon I carefully tied now digs into my palm, a physical manifestation of my nervousness. I've never been this anxious about meeting someone before—certainly not a neighbor. But this isn't just any neighbor.

It's him.

The man I've been sketching for weeks. The mysterious guitarist who appears like clockwork at 9:14 each morning, carrying his old guitar case like it contains the secrets of the universe. The man who became my muse when my artistic inspiration had all but vanished.

I take a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs as if oxygen alone can steady my racing heart. My knuckles whiten against the cardboard box. This is ridiculous, I tell myself. It's just a friendly welcome gesture between neighbors.

But it isn't just that, and we both know it.

This is the first time I'll speak to him. The first time I'll hear his voice, see his eyes up close instead of from a distance. The first time our worlds might properly collide instead of barely brushing past each other like two ships in the night.

I raise my hand, hesitating with my knuckles hovering centimeters from the wood. The sound of my own heartbeat fills my ears, loud and uneven.

What if he doesn't recognize me? What if he thinks I'm strange for bringing a cake to a complete stranger? What if...

I stop my spiraling thoughts and knock firmly three times, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway like a final verdict.