Chapter Text
~PROLOGUE~
By the fourth night, I know exactly what’s wrong.
It’s not the volume.
That would’ve been easy.
If my upstairs neighbor was blasting music, I could’ve gone up there on day one, knocked on the door, and told them to turn it down like a normal person. Problem solved.
But this?
This sits right under the threshold of being reasonable.
Too quiet to report. Too consistent to ignore.
Ten seconds of a beat—unfinished, repetitive, looping over itself like it’s trying to become something and failing every time.
And it doesn’t stop.
The first night, I barely registered it. I came home from a closing shift at the bakery, feet aching, hands still smelling like sugar and butter, and passed out almost immediately. If I heard it, it blended into everything else.
The second night, it started getting on my nerves.
I remember waking up around 2 a.m., staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what felt off. Not loud. Not sharp. Just… there. Like a thought you can’t finish.
The third night, I started anticipating it.
Lying there in the dark, waiting for the loop to restart.
Counting it.
Timing it.
Like if I understood the pattern, it would somehow bother me less.
It didn’t.
It made it worse.
Because once you notice something like that, your brain won’t let it go. It keeps reaching for the end of it—for the part where it turns into an actual song.
But it never does.
It just resets.
And starts over.
—
Now it’s night four.
And I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, the faint orange glow from the streetlight outside cutting across it in uneven lines. My alarm clock reads 3:12 a.m.
I have to be up at 6:15.
There’s a wedding order waiting for me in the morning—three-tier cake, buttercream finish, hand-piped details. The kind of order you don’t mess up because you’re tired.
Another loop starts.
I close my eyes.
It restarts.
My jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” I mutter, my voice dry. “No.”
I sit up, dragging a hand over my face. My head feels heavy, like I never fully fell asleep in the first place.
Another loop.
Same ten seconds.
That’s it.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, the floor cool under my feet as I walk over to my desk. The drawer sticks like it always does before sliding open.
Sticky note. Pen.
I lean against the desk as I write, blinking slowly.
Hey, ur music is kinda loud and i’m trying 2 sleep!
~ apt 0801
I look at it.
Not my best work.
But I’m not aiming for poetry right now.
I grab my keys, shove my feet into my slides, and step out into the hallway, locking the door behind me.
It’s quiet out there. The kind of quiet that only happens in apartment buildings after midnight—everyone asleep, lights off, no movement.
Except for that beat.
The elevator takes forever, or maybe I’m just more aware of time now. Every second feels wasted when I could be in bed.
When the doors finally open on the next floor, the sound is clearer.
Still controlled.
Still deliberate.
Just enough.
I walk straight to their door, stick the note dead center, knock once, and turn around immediately.
I don’t want a conversation.
I want sleep.
—
By the time I get back to my apartment, the music is gone.
Not quieter.
Gone.
I stop in the doorway, caught off guard by how sudden it is.
“…okay,” I say under my breath.
That was easier than I expected.
I step inside, lock the door, and stand there for a second, listening.
Nothing.
No bass. No loop. No faint vibration in the ceiling.
Just silence.
Relief settles in fast.
I don’t even bother turning on a light. I go straight back to bed, pulling the covers over me and dropping into the mattress like my body’s been waiting for permission.
This is what I needed.
Quiet.
Stillness.
Sleep comes almost instantly.
—
Thirty minutes later—
The beat comes back.
Louder.
Clear enough now that there’s no pretending it’s background noise.
My eyes snap open.
I don’t even move. I just stare at the ceiling.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
The loop restarts.
But this time, it’s different.
There’s more to it.
Drums cut in—clean and sharp. A heavier bass follows, steady and intentional. The whole thing feels fuller, like they took the same ten seconds and decided to build on it.
My ceiling hums faintly with the vibration.
I sit up slowly, irritation settling in fast.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”
So that’s how it is.
I throw the covers off and stand, already moving toward my desk. I grab my rolling chair, flip it upside down, and drag it into the center of the room.
“If you’re gonna do this,” I mutter, “we can both do this.”
I press the wheels against the ceiling and shove.
They rattle loudly, uneven and harsh.
Upstairs—
the drums get louder.
Cleaner.
Like a response.
I stop.
They stop.
I push the chair again.
The beat hits harder.
More defined.
More deliberate.
I stare up at the ceiling, narrowing my eyes.
“…wow.”
I let the chair drop.
“Alright.”
I slip my shoes back on, grab my keys, and head for the door again—this time without hesitating.
The walk upstairs feels shorter now. Faster.
By the time I reach their apartment, I’m already knocking—louder, sharper.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
The music cuts immediately.
Footsteps follow.
Unhurried.
Which is somehow worse.
The door opens.
And I freeze.
He’s standing there like he knew I’d be back.
Black hoodie. Plaid pajama pants. Studio headphones around his neck.
And a smirk.
Not subtle. Not accidental.
A full, knowing smirk.
“Hello,” he says, calm and casual, like it’s not the middle of the night.
He leans against the doorframe slightly, looking at me like this is interesting.
Like I’m interesting.
“Apt 0801.”