Hello, Neighbor

The air between us stilled after his last words: "Between worlds." 

I didn't know what I was expecting. Maybe something grander—flashes of light, a dramatic monologue. But all I got was silence, the faint scent of sampaguita, and the hum of a ceiling fan spinning lazily above us.

I didn't speak. I kept chewing on his words, hoping they would taste different if I just kept biting.

He shifted on the sofa, and the light above him flickered.

That's when I saw it—the tiniest ripple.

His left shoulder buzzed, pixelated, and then smoothed out, like bad buffering on a streaming video. I blinked. Once. Twice. It was gone.

"Did you just—?" I leaned forward, staring at him like he was a magic-eye puzzle I couldn't quite decode.

He flinched—barely, but enough.

"I shouldn't stay long," he said suddenly, avoiding my eyes.

My brows pulled together. "Why not?"

"You've noticed it, haven't you?" He turned his head slightly, eyes flickering toward the hallway, as if the house itself might be listening. "Your world doesn't know what to make of me."

I studied him more closely—not just his face, but his presence. It was like trying to tune into a radio station that didn't quite belong on the frequency. Every few seconds, something would twitch—his fingers skipping frames, a shadow on his neck that didn't quite match the light source.

"You're glitching," I whispered.

He didn't respond.

Instead, he stood up, and the couch gave a relieved creak.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said. "I only wanted to talk. To be seen. It's... hard, existing near someone who doesn't know you're real."

I followed him with my eyes as he moved toward the window, careful not to touch anything. Like he might leave a burn mark.

"So, you're not a ghost. You're not a hallucination. You're... what, exactly?" I asked, already knowing the answer would only make things messier.

He hesitated.

"I'm from a version of this place where you don't exist," he said, his voice low. "And in your world, I was never born."

My mouth parted, but no sound came out.

He turned toward me then, and for a second, his image jerked—like he'd skipped a frame in reality.

"And Lola Aurora?" I asked. "You know her, don't you?"

"She's alive in my world," he said gently. "She's my neighbor. But she never had a family. No children. No granddaughters. No one."

I swallowed hard. "She died here. Years ago."

He nodded slowly. "I figured."

We stood in that strange stillness, our universes folding over each other like mismatched puzzle pieces forcing a fit.

"Why are you glitching now?" I asked.

He looked at his hands. "This place wasn't meant to hold me. Your reality... pushes back. The longer I stay, the more I come undone."

"Then why risk it?" I asked. "Why not leave?"

He met my eyes.

He stepped forward, hesitated, then reached out slowly. I let him. His fingertips brushed my wrist—and then his entire arm flickered violently. His features broke apart like static, then snapped back together with a ragged shudder.