The New Year's Eve was filled with bright sunshine. Some birds sang their songs, their melodies drifting through the open window, but they felt distant, almost like an echo in a dream. I stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in the endless loop of my own thoughts. The world outside seemed alive, vibrant even, but within me, there was a stillness—a kind of weight I couldn't quite name.
Every year felt the same, like pages of a book being rewritten over and over, with only the slightest changes in the margins. Resolutions were made and abandoned. Promises to myself, whispered in the quiet of nights like this, dissolved before they could take root.
The birds chirped louder, as if demanding I pay attention, as if mocking my inertia. I wanted to rise, to shake off the heaviness, but my body felt fused to the mattress. The sunshine streaming through the curtains illuminated the room, catching the dust motes as they floated aimlessly, much like my thoughts.
Another year. Another chance to change. But would I?
What would my New Year's resolution be? Maybe it was time to give my lungs a break—smoke less. My nerves too—drink less coffee. And the heart, well, maybe that needed something more. A wife. The thought lingered like the aftertaste of stale tobacco. I'd be forty-two soon. Not old, but old enough to wonder if I'd missed the life everyone else seemed to stumble into.
I dragged myself out of bed, the sheets twisted around me like a bad memory, and stepped into the shower. The water was scalding, but I let it sear away the haze of sleep and the remnants of another restless night. My mind wandered again, but this time it didn't chase shadows.
Instead, it conjured a vision: a sprawling farm, golden fields swaying in the breeze, and the scent of freshly turned soil. A few workers tending the crops, a sturdy old dog lazing in the shade, and a porch swing creaking in the wind. She'd be there, my dream wife, bringing me tea with a smile that could outshine the sun. Maybe she'd rest a hand on her belly, round with the promise of a future I'd never thought much about until now.
The water cooled, dragging me back to the present. I stepped out of the tub, grabbed a towel, and faced the mirror. My reflection stared back, sharp and unrelenting. Steel-blue eyes and a face that could cut through most people's excuses. Handsome, yes. Strong genetics, sure. But all that had done was keep the loneliness at bay, not fill it.
I ruffled my damp hair and smirked faintly. "I couldn't start the year 2004 with a cigarette. Could I?" The rhetorical question lingered in the air like the smoke I swore I'd quit.
My gaze shifted to the pack on the sink. It was always there, waiting, daring me. I reached for it out of habit, my fingers grazing the crinkled cellophane before I pulled back. "Not today," I muttered under my breath, wrapping the towel tighter around my waist.
The day was young, the sun bright. Maybe I'd stick to the tea today, or maybe I'd find a way to make that farm real. It was a dream, sure. But who said dreams couldn't start on an ordinary morning like this?
My breakfast looked simple—two eggs and two slices of bread. Always the same. No frills, no flair, not even a pinch of change, even in the new year. It was as if my life had fallen into a rhythm so predictable it could be measured by the crumbs on my plate.
I stepped onto the terrace, mug of lukewarm tea in hand, and let the morning air hit my face. The faint chill did little to invigorate me. Instead, the noise from the neighbors seeped in, uninvited as always.
The latest saga? Husband caught cheating. The wife had gone full lunatic, screaming loud enough to rattle the pots in my kitchen last night. Now, it was the aftermath—sharp, heated whispers bouncing off the walls, followed by the occasional crash of what I imagined was their finest china.
I sipped my tea, watching the city hum around me. I couldn't decide if their chaos was entertaining or depressing. Maybe both.
The truth was, I was surrounded by women who weren't sweet or pleasant. They were all salty and sour—bitter in their scowls, sharp in their words. They reminded me of overripe lemons, squeezing their acidity into every corner of life. I'd stopped wondering if it was them or if it was me, or maybe both.
I leaned on the railing, staring down at the street. Somewhere out there was the farm, the wife, the tea on the porch, and the laugh of a child. Somewhere far from this city and its drama.
The wife's yelling hit a crescendo, snapping me out of my thoughts. I sighed, rubbing my temple. Another morning, same as the last. Another year, same as the one before.
The clatter of voices from the Dawsons' apartment echoed up to my terrace—sharp, biting words that hung in the air like static. Clara's voice rose to a fever pitch, filled with desperation and fury. "Who was she?!" she demanded again, her voice breaking on the edge of hysteria.
Jack's reply was swift, defensive, yet laced with irritation. "Who? Who? She's my employee!" he barked back, as if repeating it louder would make it more convincing.
Their argument wasn't a fight— it was more like two dogs circling each other, teeth bared, neither willing to back down. Their words lashed out like whips, fierce and raw. And when Clara spat out, "Don't you know? We have Alex, Mr. Jack Dawson," the bitterness behind her voice was impossible to ignore.
"Yeah, we have him," Jack shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I know—I've been paying for his school and whatnot."
"Oh," Clara hissed, her words laced with venom. "How grateful! You're paying for your own son's fees and playing the role of best dad ever. You ass."
Silence followed. A heavy, suffocating silence where Clara's sobbing was the only sound left. Her tears, muffled but audible, tore through the apartment, but Jack didn't utter another word. He just stood there, letting her weep, his gaze blank—detached.
I leaned back against the railing, sipping my tea, watching the scene unfold with a detached kind of amusement. This was entertainment—better than any TV show. Their drama unfolded like a slow-motion car crash, with every word a nail in the coffin of whatever they had once been.
Things had been quieter before—back when the old lady lived here. She was a different kind of neighbor—calm, peaceful, content to sit by the window and crochet, or bask in the sun as though the world's troubles didn't touch her. I liked the quiet. It was predictable. Simple.
But now? The Dawsons? They were something else entirely. Loud. Fierce. Complicated. Every interaction they had was a spectacle. Fun to listen to, fun to watch. And the best part? It cost me nothing to indulge in their chaos.
I hadn't paid for my TV in months. Why bother? I had everything I needed right here. The shouts, the silences, the tearful breakdowns—it was entertainment, raw and unfiltered. I chuckled softly to myself.
And for a moment, I couldn't help but feel justified. Maybe I had made the right decision after all—never marrying, never settling down. The thought of it—waking up every morning to a life of compromises, arguments, and responsibilities—felt suffocating. No, thank you. I had my freedom, my independence, and with that, I had my peace.
Some moments passed after the silence—long enough for the weight of it to settle. Then, Mr. Jack Dawson stepped out onto the terrace for some fresh air. He carried a cigarette and a lighter, dragging them along like old habits, ones he couldn't shake.
I wanted to laugh—just the sight of him with that cigarette, as if the chaos inside hadn't happened—but I pressed my lips tightly together. It wasn't the right time.
I watched him from a distance, silent and unnoticed. His gaze was fixed on the street below, unaware of my presence, or maybe just uninterested. I could feel the heaviness of my empty plate and cup beside me. The silence stretched between us until I absentmindedly stretched out my leg, knocking over the steel cup—a sharp, sonorous clang that echoed briefly into the still air.
His eyes flicked toward me, pinned on the sound, settling on my figure with his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.
"Yo, neighbor," he said, his voice rough—casual, almost bored.
I glanced at him, keeping my tone light, though something sharp stirred beneath the surface. "Yo."
"The weather's bright," I added, trying to keep it neutral.
Jack nodded, taking a long drag from his cigarette, smoke curling lazily in the air. "Caught between two stools," he muttered, almost to himself.
I smirked slightly. So, he was admitting it—whatever it was. His affair. His mess.
"Smart man," I remarked coolly, my voice laced with a faint smugness. The sense of satisfaction I felt at his casual admission bubbled beneath the surface, but I kept it controlled—barely a flicker of satisfaction in my eyes.
Jack turned his head toward me fully now, studying me. His green eyes, sharp and piercing, were so similar to Noah's that it gave me pause. But where Noah's gaze was youthful and curious, Jack's was hardened—worn down by years of experience. He was bulkier too, with tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves, making him look more like someone who ran with a gang than someone tied to a family restaurant.
"You don't miss much," he said, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement.
I shrugged slightly, as if it didn't matter to me either way. "Comes with living in a silent neighborhood like this. You stand out with that noise a lot."
Jack's smirk wavered, and his gaze flickered toward the street, then back to me. He puffed his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily between us. "Silent, huh? Guess that's one way to describe it. You been here long?"
I shrugged again, keeping my tone casual. "Long enough to know the old tenants didn't scream bloody murder every other night."
Jack chuckled low, a dry sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, well, they weren't married to Clara, were they?"
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "Guess not. She's got quite the… presence."
His lips quirked into a bitter smile, and he shook his head. "You have no idea."
For a moment, we both fell silent, the hum of the street below filling the void. Jack took another drag, his green eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. He looked like a man carrying more weight than he cared to admit, but with a defiance that refused to let him crumble.
"Still," I said, breaking the quiet, "you're making it interesting. Keeps things lively around here."
He barked a short laugh, glancing at me sideways. "Glad to know my misery's your entertainment."
I raised an eyebrow, unbothered by his tone. "Hey, I don't pay for cable. Gotta get my drama somewhere."
Jack studied me for a moment, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his features. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"
"Maybe," I replied, smirking. "But at least I don't air my dirty laundry on the terrace."
His laughter this time was genuine, rough and low. He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, flicking the butt over the edge. "Fair enough, neighbor. Fair enough."
He turned to go, but not before throwing me a glance over his shoulder. "Enjoy the show, then. Just don't forget—it's a two-way street."