The man next door

Aiko lay on her back with her eyes open, staring at the dark ceiling like it could answer her. The apartment was quiet in the safe way—fridge hum, distant train, the soft moving sound of Haruto turning in his sleep. Then the wall started again. Not loud, not clear, just enough. A rhythm from next door. A breath that didn’t belong to her.

She pressed her pillow over her ear. It didn’t help. The sound slipped through anyway, flat and close, like someone had leaned their mouth against the plaster. Her cheeks heated. Shame came first, sharp and fast, as if she had done something wrong by listening.

Haruto slept beside her, calm and perfect. He always was. He never woke up angry. He never raised his voice. He checked the lock twice before bed, like that was love. Aiko had married her life to that kind of safety. She told herself she didn’t notice the neighbor. She told herself the noise was just pipes or music.