"I'll take it."
She starts down the stairs, moving with exaggerated care. At the landing, she glances back.
"See you around, neighbor."
"Until next time."
I watch until she disappears around the corner, then stand alone in the stairwell that somehow feels brighter despite her absence. The morning routine awaits with laundry, breakfast, lecture preparation, office hours, but everything feels slightly recalibrated, as if familiar patterns have shifted to accommodate new possibilities.
The grass-scented detergent releases its meadow fragrance when I shoulder the bag. Home scents, comfort scents, butmixed now with coffee and vanilla traces that linger in the air where Maya stood.
Perhaps routine benefits from more than occasional disruption.
Perhaps it benefits from the specific disruption of neighbors who tumble down staircases and ask pointed questions about Shakespeare and offer genuine appreciation for cultural gestures most humans never notice.
Perhaps some conversations are worth losing sleep over.
Fascinating.
The basement laundry room awaits, machines humming their mechanical songs, but I find myself moving slower than usual, preserving the warmth of unexpected human connection for as long as possible before returning to the careful isolation of academic routine.
Some disruptions, it seems, are worth maintaining.
CHAPTER 5
MAYA
Back in 4C, I settle at my laptop with coffee number three and pull up myCity Living Hacksdraft. Today's topic: neighbor relations and conflict resolution. Perfect timing, considering recent developments in the diplomatic relations between floors three and four.
But concentration proves elusive. Every few minutes, I catch myself listening for sounds from upstairs. Not the bass-heavy Shakespeare recitations that originally drove me to file complaints, but something else. Evidence that my fascinating neighbor maintains his mysterious daily routines while I attempt to maintain mine.
The coffee grows cold while I type and delete variations of the same opening paragraph. How do you write about neighbor conflicts when your primary case study is evolving from adversarial to... what exactly? Friendly? Intriguing? Dangerously close to whatever happens when intellectual curiosity meets genuine attraction?
Focus, Maya.
By noon, I've managed exactly three usable sentences. Productivity: abysmal. Distraction level: concerning. Solution: cooking therapy.
My kitchen occupies a narrow galley space with just enough room for creative experimentation, which today means attempting something I've never tried before: vegan cooking that might appeal to someone whose cultural background remains largely mysterious but clearly emphasizes substance over style.
Ursak strikes me as someone who appreciates hearty meals. Comfort food with weight and meaning, not the Instagram-worthy salads that usually constitute my lunch routine. Something warming, filling, intentional.
I dig through cabinets for inspiration. Lentils, quinoa, vegetable stock, root vegetables that have been waiting patiently for purpose. Carrots, parsnips, sweet potatoes, onions. The foundation of something substantial.
Cooking becomes meditation. Dice onions into precise cubes. Peel and chunk root vegetables. Heat oil until it shimmers. The familiar rhythm of preparation grounds me in present moment awareness instead of spinning mental wheels about complicated neighbor dynamics.
Onions hit the oil with satisfying sizzle. Golden brown, translucent, fragrant. Add carrots and parsnips, let them soften. Sweet potatoes follow, then garlic minced fine enough to distribute evenly throughout.
The apartment fills with warm, earthy aromas. Comfort food smells that transform sterile living space into something approaching home.
Lentils and quinoa go in next, followed by vegetable stock that bubbles enthusiastically when it hits the heated vegetables. I add thyme, rosemary, bay leaves, a splash of soy sauce for umami depth. Salt and pepper to taste.
While the stew simmers, I realize I'm unconsciously cooking for two.
When did that happen?
The recipe easily serves four, but I'm definitely not planning to eat vegan stew for the next week. Subconscious meal planning, apparently. My brain makes decisions without consulting my conscious mind, which feels both presumptuous and oddly hopeful.
Would Ursak appreciate homemade stew? Is offering food to neighbors normal social behavior or overstepping boundaries we haven't clearly established? We've graduated from noise complaints to laundry assistance to philosophical discussions about intentionality, but shared meals represent territory I haven't navigated.
