I wasn’t planning to post this. I don't even know if it's a love story or a warning. Maybe both. All I know is that ever since he left, I’ve been a little less real.
I’m 32. I'm gay. I live in New York City's East Village, one of those creaky old buildings where the heat rattles like bones in the walls and no one knows their neighbors. I work remotely for a design agency. My life used to be manageable. Lonely, but clean.
Until he moved into apartment 4B.
I didn’t see him move in. Just heard it—late-night dragging sounds, muffled thuds against the wall, low music, and laughter. Not joyful laughter. The kind that makes your skin tense. Like someone smiling with a knife under their tongue.
At first, I ignored it. People come and go in this city like smoke.
But then I met him.
The Knock
It was 11:47 PM. I remember because I’d just finished a bottle of cheap red wine and was watching the rain hit the window like static. A knock came, followed by three soft taps. I opened the door, and there he was.
“Hey,” he said, as if he’d known me forever. “I live next door now.”
He looked around my age. Maybe 34. Messy black hair, dark eyes that shimmered amber in the hall light. He had that look, like a wolf who knew you were already bleeding.
He smelled like clove cigarettes and something warm and woody, like wet earth after a thunderstorm. His shirt was half-unbuttoned. His boots were unlaced.
“I was gonna listen to some records,” he said, tilting his head. “Want to join me?”
I didn’t say yes. I just followed him.
The First Night
4B didn’t look like an apartment. It looked like a stage set for something I didn’t understand. Velvet curtains, flickering candles, floor pillows, shelves full of books in languages I couldn’t read.
He played Nina Simone on vinyl. Poured whiskey in crystal tumblers. Sat cross-legged across from me and asked questions like:
“Do you believe love is possession?”
“Do you think pain and beauty are the same?”
“Have you ever wanted someone to ruin you completely?”
I didn’t know how to answer. But I knew I wanted him to ask more.
At some point, the lights went out. On purpose, I think. Or maybe it was part of the spell. I couldn’t see him, just felt the weight of his eyes. The air between us was thick, like something sacred was about to happen.
He didn’t touch me. He didn’t have to. When he finally walked me back to my door, I stood there for five minutes with my heart thudding, afraid to blink and break whatever had just begun.
The Pull
Over the next weeks, we became... something. Not dating. Not friends. Something heavier. He would show up unannounced. Always at night. Sometimes at 2 AM. Sometimes shirtless. Sometimes barefoot. Always uninvited. Always wanted.
He never asked if he could come in. He just looked at me, and I stepped aside.
He had this way of looking at me like he was reading a boo,k he already knew the ending to. And it wasn’t happy.
He’d touch the edge of my sleeve and say, “This color suits you better when you’re on your knees.”
Or, “Do you always flinch when someone loves you, or is it just me?”
One night, he kissed me in the hallway. No warning. Just slammed me against my door and crushed his mouth to mine like it was the last thing keeping him alive. His hand on my throat wasn’t hard, but it made my knees buckle. I didn’t want him to stop.
When he pulled back, he whispered, “Don’t fall in love with me.”
Too late.
The Surrender
We never had sex in the conventional sense. But everything we did felt like foreplay for something unspeakable.
He would trace his fingers down my spine, whisper in my ear in some unknown tongue, bite just hard enough to leave marks. One night, he pushed me onto the couch and straddled me, grinding slowly against me while his hand slid up under my shi, t—barely touching, like he was trying to memorize what I was.
“You ache so easily,” he murmured. “That’s what I love about you.”
He never undressed fully. He liked the tension. The power of leaving things undone. And I gave it to him. My body. My silence. My shame.
It felt holy. And sick.
The Disappearance
Then he vanished.
Just like that.
No goodbye. No explanation.
I knocked on 4B. No answer. Called. Texted. Nothing.
I went to the landlord. He said 4B had been empty for months. That no one had signed a lease. I showed him a photo I secretly took of Luca asleep on my couch.
The landlord paled.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
“I live next door,” I said.
“There’s no Luca here,” he whispered. “That’s... impossible.”
The Apartment
I broke into 4B.
I’m not proud of it. But I had to know.
The apartment was empty. Abandoned. Covered in dust. Furniture gone. Bookshelves bare. No curtains. No candles.
Except for one thing.
On the floor, where we’d sat the first night, was a record. Nina Simone. And beside it, carved into the wood with something sharp, was my name.
In his handwriting.
Now
That was nine months ago.
Sometimes I still wake up at 2 AM and swear I hear him breathing beside me. I still check the hallway when I hear footsteps. I keep a glass of whiskey and a candle near the window—just in case.
I don’t date anymore. I can’t.
Because no one makes me feel like I’m about to be devoured. No one makes me feel like I could lose myself in their shadow and call it love.
No one makes me feel ruined.
And I miss it.
God help me, I miss him.
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