"So," Leo said, "next issue of Next Door Notes : 'How to Know You're Not Just Surviving Anymore.' Want to co-write it with me?"
"His name is Tofu," Leo said, handing her a charger. "And you're Amelia Wang, right? The one who writes the lifestyle column?"
Her beat? "Everyday Euphoria." She reviewed weighted blankets, candle subscriptions, and the emotional arc of reality TV villains. She was good at it. But she wrote from a cocoon of secondhand furniture, never actually living the lifestyle she preached.
His apartment was chaos in the best way. Sheet music covered the floor like fallen leaves. A turntable spun something jazzy. The orange cat jumped down and immediately rubbed against Amelia's ankle.
Amelia hated him immediately.
Not because he was loud, or messy, or rude. Because he was next door . Close enough that she could hear him laugh at podcasts through the wall. Close enough that his life bled into hers like watercolor.
Leo was not a ghost. Leo was a percussionist for a semi-famous indie band called Hollow Bones . He practiced his drum rudiments at 7 a.m. sharp. He hung string lights on his balcony. He introduced himself to everyone on the floor with homemade kimchi jjigae and a smile that could power a small city.