The neighbor's music

The old building breathed. Yasmin heard it in the floorboards that creaked under her feet, in the radiators that ticked softly, in the walls that carried every step, every cough, every silence of the other residents to her.

She had chosen the apartment because of the light, the large windows facing the street that turned golden in the afternoon, and because of the price. The thin walls were the price to pay.

She heard him for the first time on the first evening, before she had even unpacked her boxes.

Cello.

Not recorded. Not filtered through speakers. The sound came through the wall like breath, warm and raw and close. She sat on the floor of her empty living room, her back against the radiator, and listened.

Bach, she recognized. The suites. He played slowly, thoughtfully, as if feeling his way through the notes. Once he stopped, repeated a phrase. Then the melody flowed on, deeper, and something within it vibrated.

Yasmin closed her eyes.

The music filled the room in a way that furniture never could. It also filled something within her, a space she hadn't known existed, an emptiness that suddenly took shape.

She worked from home, a freelance voice actress, with a small recording studio in her bedroom. Her voice was her instrument: warm, versatile, reliable. She recorded audiobooks, mostly romances. Love stories with predictable endings, safe havens for women seeking solace.

It was ironic that she was reading these very books while her own life was so still. No dates for months. No physical contact except her own hand on the computer mouse. No intimacy except that which she created with her voice, for strangers who would never see her.

But the voice never lied. The voice gave what it itself lacked.

He played again on the third evening.

This time it was jazz. Something slow, melancholic. The notes stretched, hesitated, sank deeper, brushed over her skin like invisible fingers.

Yasmin sat at her desk, the manuscript of a new audiobook in front of her. A scene in which the heroine learned that her lover had lied to her. Grief, anger, disappointment—everything should resonate in her voice.

She recorded it.

Her voice broke at the right moments, trembled, and grew quiet. But it wasn't an act. She truly felt it, through the wall, through the music interwoven with the words.

The cello continued playing through the wall, as if it knew what she was feeling. As if it were answering.

She began to align her work with him.

When she heard him playing, usually around seven o'clock, she waited. She sorted through her recordings, selecting passages that suited the mood.

Did he play something wild and fast-paced? She read the heated argument scene in which the protagonist screamed the truth in her opponent's face.

Was he playing something gentle, something sad? She read the reconciliation, the quiet confession, the moment when two people finally saw each other.

It was a conversation without words. A dialogue of sound and voice, more intimate than any conversation she had ever had.

She didn't know if he heard her. She didn't even know if he knew she existed.

But it felt like closeness. Like touch.

One evening, after a particularly intense recording session, a scene in which the heroine allowed herself to be desired, to open up, to be vulnerable, not to hide her desire, Yasmin took off her headphones and leaned back.

Her cheeks were warm. Her pulse was rapid. Her skin tingled.

She hadn't just read the words. She had felt them. She had imagined what it would be like to be touched like that, wanted like that, seen like that.

The cello was silent.

She waited, her breathing still uneven.

Nothing.

The silence suddenly felt different. Not empty. Charged. As if someone were holding their breath, as if someone were listening.

Yasmin stood up and went to the wall that separated her living room from his apartment. She placed her palm against it. The wood was cool, but she sensed something behind it, a presence, an attention. An awareness of her.

Or was she just imagining it?

The next morning, she slipped a note under his door.

Thank you for the music.

Nothing more. No signature. No explanation.

She went to work, a meeting in the city, rare enough, and tried not to think about it. Tried to ignore the fluttering anticipation in her chest.

When she returned, there was a note under her door.

A different style. Something angular, precise.

Thanks for the stories. I can hear through the wall.

Yasmin stopped in the middle of the hallway, the note in her hand. Her fingers were trembling slightly.

He had heard them.

All the time.

Every scene. Every whispered declaration of love. Every gasp, every moan she created with her voice. Even last night's scene.

Her face was burning.

But underneath it all was something else. A tingling sensation. A heat spreading through her stomach.

She slipped him another note the following evening.

What do you like listening to most?

The answer came in the morning.

The moments when you forget you're reading. When your voice no longer plays, but feels. When you lose yourself.

She read the sentence three times. Each time, her breathing became shallower.

He knew. He didn't just hear the words. He truly heard them .

The weeks passed.

They wrote to each other. Little notes that slipped under doors like secrets.

Why cello?

Because it comes closest to the human voice. Because it can cry. Because it can sing. Because it can touch without touching.

Are you playing to say something you can't speak?

Isn't that also why you play?

She laughed when she read that. Loudly. Alone in her apartment.

Then, one night, she heard him improvising.

No notes. No structure. Just sound, groping its way through the darkness, searching, questioning. The melody was different. Intimate. Almost raw. Hungry.

Yasmin sat up in bed, her heart suddenly racing. She was only wearing a T-shirt; her skin was warm from sleep.

The music flowed on, deeper, more urgently. She felt it not only in her ears, but everywhere – in her chest, in her stomach, deeper still.

She stood up and went to the wall. She placed both hands against it, her palms flat on the cool wood.

The cello paused.

For a breath, there was silence.

Then he continued playing, more quietly now, more intimately, as if he were speaking only to her. As if he were touching her through the wall.

Yasmin closed her eyes. The music enveloped her, penetrated her, touched something she couldn't name. Her body reacted, her skin sensitive, her pulse racing.

She whispered against the wall: "I hear you."

The cello answered. A deep, vibrating groan that resonated through her.

She leaned her forehead against the wood, her eyes closed, and let herself be carried away by the music.

The next day the heating failed.

Winter had come early, the nights already icy. Yasmin wrapped herself in blankets, but the cold crept through the cracks, settling into her bones.

She hesitated for a long time.

Then she knocked on his door.

The seconds stretched. She heard footsteps. Slow, tentative, certain.

The door opened.

He was tall. Dark hair that fell across his forehead. A face that seemed serious until you saw his eyes, gray, attentive, beautiful. And they didn't see.

He was blind.

Yasmin needed a moment to find her voice.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was deeper than she had expected. Calm. Velvety. She felt it in her chest. “You are the storyteller.”

“Yasmin,” she said quietly. “The heating is…”

"I know. Same here." He smiled slightly, and it changed his whole face. "Would you like to come in? It's not much warmer, but I have tea."

She entered.

The apartment was sparsely furnished. Clean lines, few pieces of furniture. But music everywhere: sheet music in Braille on a stand, a cello in the corner, records on a shelf.

"I chose this apartment because of the acoustics," he said, as if sensing her question. "The walls here... they carry the sound. You can hear everything."

“Everything,” she repeated, her voice trembling slightly.

"Everything." He turned to her, his head slightly tilted as if listening. "I don't know your face, Yasmin. But I know every nuance of your voice. I know when you smile. When you're tired. When you're reading something that moves you." A pause. "When you're aroused."

Her throat tightened. Heat shot into her face.

"You play differently when you know I'm listening," she whispered.

"You read differently when you know I'm listening." He came closer, slowly. "Last night. You didn't just read. You felt."

"From where-"

"I hear it. In your breath. In the way your voice trembles."

The air between them vibrated.

She stayed longer than she had planned.

They drank tea. They talked. About music, about stories, about the silence between the notes and the words. About loneliness. About longing.

"What's your name?" she asked at some point.

"Luca."

"Luca." The name felt good in her mouth. Intimate.

"Say it again," he asked softly.

"Luca."

"I love the way you say my name. As if it were something precious."

The heating system has been repaired.

But something had shifted.

Luca played again the following evening.

This time Yasmin opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and knocked softly.

He opened the door as if he had been waiting.

“May I?” she asked.

"Always."

She sat down on his sofa, her legs drawn up, and he played.

For her.

Just for her.

She watched him – the way his body moved to the music, the way his fingers glided over the strings, the way his face relaxed, opened up. It was intimate, watching him like that. Almost too intimate.

When he was finished, he put the cello aside and sat down next to her. Close. So close that she could feel his warmth.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"That you play. For me."

"I've been playing for you for weeks." His hand found hers on the sofa. "Since the very first evening."

Her fingers interlocked.

The following weeks developed a rhythm.

She worked. He played. Sometimes together, sometimes separately.

But now there was no wall between them.

Only space. And sound. And breath. And a growing tension that intensified with each passing day.

One evening he put the cello aside and came to her, sitting so close that their thighs touched.

"May I?" he asked quietly.

"What?"

"Touch you."

Yasmin's heart pounded. "Yes."

His hands found her face. Slowly, carefully, tenderly. His fingers glided over her forehead, her cheekbones, her jaw. He learned them, read them like Braille.

"You're warm," he murmured.

"You too."

His thumbs brushed over her lips, slowly, probingly. She opened her mouth slightly, and she heard his breath catch.

"Tell me what you look like," he whispered.

"Brown eyes. Dark hair, always a bit chaotic. I'm average."

"Nothing about you is average." His voice was rough. "You are a sound I've never heard before. Unique. Beautiful."

She laughed softly, tremulously. "That's the most kitschy line I've ever heard."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Her forehead rested against his. Their breaths mingled.

"Yasmin."

"Yes?"

"I want to hear you. When you're not reading. When it's just you. When you feel what I want you to feel."

She understood. And her body reacted, heat spread, a desire she could no longer hide.

He kissed her.

Slowly. Tentatively. As if he were translating a language he was just learning. His lips were soft, warm, and as he went deeper, he tasted of tea and something sweet.

Her hands rested on his shoulders, feeling the muscles there, the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

His arms embraced her, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened, becoming more intense.

She gasped against his mouth.

"That," he murmured. "That's what I want to hear. Always."

His hands slid down her back, under her shirt. She trembled.

"Cold?" he asked.

"No. Quite the opposite."

He smiled against her lips. "Good."

They made love on his sofa, in the soft light of a single lamp.

Luca touched her as if she were music. Every curve a note. Every tremor a chord. His hands learned her with an attention she had never experienced before.

"Tell me how you feel," he whispered against her skin as he pulled her shirt over her head.

"I can't..."

"Yes. Tell me. I want to hear you."

"Your hands," she gasped. "They're burning. Everywhere."

"Where?" His fingers slid over her ribs, higher.

"Everywhere."

He smiled at her neck. "More precisely."

"Here." She guided his hand to her breast. "Here."

He groaned softly, his fingers closed around her, and she arched towards him.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured. "I can't see you, but I feel you. Everywhere."

His lips wandered down her neck, her shoulder, lower. He took his time, learning every inch of her skin, listening to every sound she made.

“Luca,” she gasped as his hands slid lower. “Please—”

"What do you need?"

"You. More."

"I am here." His fingers found her, and she cried out softly.

He listened to every gasp. To every falter in her breath. To the tremor in her voice when she said his name. He learned what she needed, what made her tremble.

“Luca—”

"I hear you. I have you."

"Please. I need—"

"Say it."

"You. Inside me."

He pulled her onto his lap, their bodies came together, and they both groaned.

They moved, slowly at first, then more urgently. His hands held her hips, guided her, his lips found her neck.

"Say my name," he murmured.

"Luca."

"Once again."

"Luca." She clung to him, feeling herself approaching the edge. "Luca, I—"

"I know. Me too. Let go."

And she did it, plunging over the edge, his name a cry on her lips. He followed her, his face buried in her neck, their names intertwined.

Later, as they lay leaning against each other, the air still warm, their bodies still vibrating, their hearts still racing, she whispered: "I've never felt like this before."

"Me neither."

"How is that possible? We hardly know each other."

"I know you," he said softly. His fingers stroked her hair. "Perhaps not your face. But I know your truth. The parts of you you don't hide when you're alone. I know your voice when it's honest. I know your desire. Your loneliness. Your longing."

Yasmin closed her eyes. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek.

He felt it. His thumbs brushed it away.

"Don't cry."

"It's good. These are good tears."

"Good."

He pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. "Stay tonight."

"Yes."

They slept snuggled up together, and for the first time in months Yasmin did not feel alone.

The heating never broke down again.

But Yasmin still went to see him every evening.

Sometimes he played. Sometimes she read to him, her voice soft in the darkness.

Sometimes they did nothing but love, their bodies a conversation without words.

And in the silence between the sounds and words, they heard each other.

Not with the ears.

Something deeper.

Something that didn't need eyes to see.