Hello, Neighbor

Chapter 6: Out of Place

I gasped and yanked my hand away. He stumbled back a step, breathing hard.

"See?" he said hoarsely. "Too long, and I start to unravel."

I stood there, heart hammering, hand burning where he'd touched me.

He took a breath as though to speak, then hesitated. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. "There are moments," he said, "when you don't see me either."

It sounded like a confession.

Like he was surprised to realize it himself. We'd both experienced the same thing—the flickers of each other's absence. And yet... why? Out of all the people in the world, why us?

I glanced at the clock. It was already past seven.

We fell quiet again, but it wasn't an awkward silence.

"Arin," I said finally, breaking the spell and extending my hand. "Arin Mondelez."

He smiled, and after a brief hesitation, he reached out and shook it firmly. "I'm Redmond Sevilla. It's nice meeting you, Arin."

We smiled at each other, but when I let go of his hand, there was a dull ache in my chest I couldn't explain.

I retreated to the kitchen, needing something to do. Anything to anchor me.

"You've got a turntable," he called out from the living room.

"Yeah. Haven't really used it, though," I replied.

There were a few records stacked near the table—newly pressed vinyls I'd bought but never touched.

I heard a few clinks, a soft rustle of sleeves, and then, music.

It was soft jazz—mellow and familiar.

"It's I'm Getting Sentimental Over You by Tommy Dorsey," Redmond said, appearing at the kitchen entrance. "It's beautiful."

I wanted to appreciate the music, but I was too distracted. Still, I nodded.

I focused on cooking—adobo and rice. Something simple, comforting. He stood by the kitchen island, observing everything—the shape of the forks, the shine of the floor. Like someone remembering a dream they weren't sure was theirs.

When dinner was done, we ate quietly at the island. He tried the food and gave a small, approving nod. I noticed he watched me more than he watched the plate.

Afterward, he offered to do the dishes, and I let him.

We returned to the living room, the music now fading into silence again.

"How will you go back to your world?" I asked as we sat again.

"I don't know," he answered, and the silence returned.

"I think you need to see something," I said and stood from my chair. I walked into the bedroom, heart thudding, and gestured for him to follow. I wanted to show him the house across from mine—the one that mirrored his.

But when I turned back, he was still standing hesitantly at the doorway.

I became self-conscious. He looked like he belonged in another era, another layer of space entirely.

"You can come in, Red...mond," I said, a little unsure. Unsure how to address him. Unsure of how to treat him.

He hesitated for a beat longer, then stepped in. I walked to the window and gestured toward the house directly across.

He followed—and froze.

"This... this is my home," he said. "Before I renovated it. But here, it looks... sad."

I looked out with him. The house was dark, the roof caving in, paint peeling like sunburned skin. Broken windows, rusted gates. It hadn't been touched in years.

Time was eating it alive.

"You should go," I said, not quite sure if I meant it.

He turned toward the door but hesitated.

"Wait," I said louder than I intended. "Don't just vanish."

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"I'll try not to," he said. "But if I do, follow the scent."

My brow furrowed. "Sampaguita?"

He nodded. "That's the tether. It's how the veil opens between us."

Then he added, quieter, "I didn't mean for this to be... dramatic. I just didn't want to disappear without saying something real."

"Too late for casual now," I muttered.

A faint grin tugged at his lips. "You're not what I expected."

"Good," I said. "I hope I disappoint you even more next time."

As if on cue, that familiar, unsettling sweetness of sampaguita bloomed out of nowhere.

He laughed once—a surprised sound, almost warm—and with that, he turned, stepped out the doorway, and vanished without sound or ceremony.

No door opened. No light blinked.

Just gone.

I stood in the middle of the room, heart thudding, hand tingling. The ceiling fan hummed above me like nothing had happened at all.

And I realized I wasn't scared.

I was just wide awake.