"Then why?—"
"I'm just saying be prepared for any reaction. I don't want you getting hurt. But also, you'll never know if you don't try, right? And it's anonymous enough that if he's not interested, you can just pretend it wasn't you."
I frown. "It literally says 'your neighbor from 3B.'"
"So? There's plausible deniability. You could say someone was playing a prank.”
“Like who?”
“Likeme, maybe. A friend, a work colleague with a grudge.”
The idea has a certain appeal. A safety net. But, ”I don't know..."
"Look, it's already" —she checks her phone— "ten o'clock. He's probably still up. Just slip it under his door and run back. A minute of courage for potentially the best Valentine's Day ever."
"Or the most humiliating."
"Live a little, Em." She presses the card into my hand and closes my fingers around it. "When's the last time you did something truly daring? Something just for yourself?"
The answer is never. I've always been the careful one, the responsible one, the predictable one. The one who dropped out of college because she hated marketing but still feels guilty about it. The one who apologizes when someone steps on my foot. Or bumps into me on the sidewalk. The one who palpitates when I argue with someone on the phone.
Maybe it is time for something different.
"Fine. I'll do it." I stand, Croissant tumbling from my lap with an offended meow. "But if this backfires spectacularly, I'm blaming you."
"It's going to be amazing. Go. I'll wait right here."
I hesitate. "Y-you're not coming?"
"And ruin your moment? Absolutely not. I'll hold down the fort with Mr. Whisk…um…Croissant.” Selena raises her glass in a mock toast. “Goddamn, even your cat’s a pastry, now…go get your man."
With a deep breath, I fold the card and stuff it into a plain envelope. No name, just in case I lose my nerve at the last second.
The hallway feels colder than usual when I step out, worn carpet rough against my bare feet. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that unflattering overly bright glow. This is supposed to be romantic, right? And yet everything looks straight out of a horror movie. Like, those quiet white-knuckle seconds before the jumpscare scenes.
My heart pounds so hard I'm convinced ninety-year-old Roberta can hear it through her door, where the faint sounds of a Korean drama drift into the corridor.
Eight steps. That's the distance between my apartment and his. Eight steps I've walked hundreds of times, always aware of the solid door marked 3A, always wondering what happens on the other side.
I reach Alex's door, my fingers trembling around the envelope. There's light visible underneath—a thin golden line that confirms he's home and possibly still awake.
The thought stops my breath. He's right there. Just on the other side of this barrier, probably reading or doing whatever impossibly attractive, mysterious ex-military men do on random February evenings.
What if he opens the door right now? What if he catches me?
The urge to flee nearly overwhelms me. This is insane. I'm in my pajamas, buzzed on wine, about to proposition the hottest man I've ever seen in real life with an explicitly dirty Valentine's card.
I kneel, envelope clutched in my sweaty hand.
Just do it. Two seconds of courage. Slip it under and run.
The card slides beneath his door with a soft whisper of paper against wood.
And then … movement. A sound from inside. The creak of a chair or footsteps or?—
I scramble to my feet, panic surging through me.
Run. Run now. On my tiptoes.
