My neighbour and I had been exchanging polite nods for almost a year. We knew each other's faces, delivery schedules, and the exact expression people make when the lift stops on every floor.
Then we matched on Hinge.
Our first date was accidental in the sense that neither of us admitted it was a date. We got coffee downstairs, walked around the neighbourhood, and somehow ended up talking until midnight.
When he walked me back, we entered the lift together.
Six floors. Forty seconds.
He stood beside me, close enough that I could smell his perfume. I glanced at him, and he was already looking at me.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Depends.”
“Would it be weird if I kissed you right now?”
I laughed because my nervous system had apparently decided to abandon all useful functions.
“No,” I said.
He kissed me just as the lift doors opened.
We separated so quickly that an elderly aunty entering the lift gave us a suspicious look. I wanted to move to another city.
The next morning, he messaged me: “For the record, I would like a second attempt without an audience.”
We went on another date that weekend.
I still take the stairs sometimes.
Not because I regret anything.
Because aunty lives on the fourth floor, and I am not ready for the interrogation.