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You were starting to have your doubts about that neighbor of yours.
In your eyes, she was perfect. Up before six for a morning run, dressed to the nines for work at eight, back home again at six for another run before retreating to her apartment for the night. From the glimpses you saw into her life, it seemed… how would you put it? Collected, poised, elegant…
There was no way her front was legit. Sure, looks can be deceiving and all that. But anyone who tried so hard to maintain appearances—and executed it so well—had to have more going on. You were determined to find the person behind her perfection.
Months passed as you settled into your new apartment and got acquainted with your neighbors. Hers was the only wall you couldn’t seem to break.
You huffed, looking down at her name on the mailbox beneath yours. Natalie Rushman. It frustrated you to no end. You’d managed to become at least friendly with everyone on your floor except for her. She’d hardly given you the time of day, aside from clipped hellos and barely-discernible smiles.
Maybe she just likes space, you thought as she breezed past you on the stairs. Or maybe she isn’t even aware that she’s doing it. Whatever the cause, your interest in the woman across the hall only grew.
So another set of months passed, and you made progress. She smiled your way more frequently, and though brevity was still present, the two of you started having more conversations. It wasn’t much, but you felt that you were beginning to toe the line into friendship. You learned she worked as a personal assistant to a billionaire CEO. She hadn’t phrased it quite like that—but a few Google searches were confirmation enough.
Three weeks—not that you were counting—after that conversation, you ran into her at the Starbucks down the street. She’d seated herself in one of the tan armchairs in the corner, against the window. The sunlight caught in her red curls like flames. You had to physically turn your body to keep from staring. She was stunning.
As you ordered, you felt the weight of her stare. At least you hoped it was hers. Your dreamy Saturday morning would be spectacularly ruined if it turned out to be a 50 year old man making eyes at you.
You turned to leave, risking one last glance. You were right; it was her. Full, pretty lips quirked up into a smirk and she patted the arm of the chair next to hers. What the hell—do people actually smile like that? I thought they only did that in movies. You joined her in a daze.
Your name on her lips sounded like a song. You wanted to pound yourself upside the head. Since when had you become such a sap? Instead you smile and say her name back to her.
That day, you learned that she had a fondness for vanilla lattes, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and had taken Latin courses when she was younger. The conversation topics stayed light, but as time passed, the two of you had slowly shifted closer together. Any passerby might have mistaken it for a deeper discussion. The low, soft hum of her words had you swooning. You very nearly asked for her phone number as you parted ways, but decided not to push it. Baby steps.
She stood still, just looking at you as you began to walk away. After a yard or so, you turned to look back at her. Green eyes pierced into your own before drifting down.
“It was good to see you.” This was directed more towards her coffee than you, but you didn’t care.
“It was good to see you too, Natalie.”
Suddenly, she looked up. If it was at all possible, her eyes seemed to grow more intense. They seemed to be searching your own. You wondered if she’d found what she was looking for as she gave you a final smile and turned away.
.
You didn’t see her again for two months. The landlord had been paid rent ahead of time and hadn’t cared to ask further. The neighbors were just as clueless as you were.
It could be work, you reasoned. Or a family emergency. But your worry was not easily assuaged.
The next time you saw her was on the television. You nearly fainted as the camera zoomed in on her on the top of a skyscraper you probably should have recognized. But your eyes were only for her. She looked different; her hair waved just past her chin, and that bodysuit, but it was certainly her.
Your jaw fell slack as you watched her battle seemingly endless floods of those alien things. Your knees shook as you sat down. What the absolute fuck? Watching her get hit, get hurt, and then come back swinging nearly a thousand times harder… It was too much. You felt the strangest urge to help her, protect her, do something. When her back hit the ledge of the building, so dangerously close to falling off, you had to turn the television off.
You sat with your face buried in your hands for a good half hour, nearly paralyzed. Every negative outcome ran through your mind. You didn’t sleep that night.
.
Another two weeks passed before you saw her again. You were sure if you turned on the television, or even looked online, you’d have seen her. But in all honesty, you weren’t sure if you could take it. It had been hard enough to accept the quiet girl you thought you’d known being the same girl spitting blood on a rooftop.
You were just leaving your apartment for work when the soft call of your name made you jump. Turning around, you nearly fainted again. There she was, scratched and bruised, but otherwise looking completely normal. You choked out her name in response.
“I saw you on the news,” you said. Then you took a hesitant step forward and asked, “Are you okay?”
She just barely smiled. “It looks worse than it is. I’ll be just fine.”
You tried to nod. It probably looked more like twitching. You studied her face, and then took another small step towards her.
“Natalie…” you started. You stopped, then swallow, and start again. “Who are you?”
The soft insecurity of your question seemed to take her by surprise. “Excuse me?”
“We’ve lived across from each other for nearly a year and I can just barely count on two hands the number of conversations we’ve had. I mean, I guess now I know why, but...” You catch sight of an angry cut along her jaw and tears threaten to fall. “I don’t like it. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, Natalie, but I’ve had enough. I want to know you. Of course there are probably some things I can’t know, but… I want to know you.”
She hit you with that searching look again before drawing in a short breath. “Natasha.”
It was your turn to be caught short. “Pardon?”
“My name. It’s Natasha.” She, Natasha, the girl with the pretty smile and the sunshine in her hair and the bruised knuckles, took a step towards you. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes weren’t searching anymore. You thought that you finally understood what she was looking for.