Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. I even borrowed the style. I fully acknowledge that the recognizable parts of this story belong to other authors. I seek no profit.

Thanks to my beta, roswell1828 for looking this over.

I

I often wondered about the man living downstairs in the apartment below mine. I never saw him. I heard him, more often than not. I would hear the TV or the clothes dryer and some times the shower, running at odd hours, when my own life was still and quiet. I never heard his voice.

He never opened the windows to let air inside. The blinds never moved, never allowing the sunlight to fill a room. He had a car, parked in the space next to mine, which rarely moved. Maybe it didn't move, but some mornings I could swear it was parked a little closer or farther away within the space beside my car. I wondered what his story was. Perhaps he had a serious medical condition, one that made sunlight and fresh air unbearable. Or maybe it was a phobia, the kind that sends you reeling at the very thought of being outside in the uncontrollable, unsafe world. He could have several types of phobias in fact. Anthropophobia, heliophobia, photophobia or vestiphobia, it could have been any number of things keeping him inside. Was he in the Witness Protection Program? Or was he a hacker, working for a secret criminal operation? I didn't even know if he was young or old; I didn't even know if he was in fact a he. There had to be a story.

Perhaps I was wrong and there was no story to tell. I had been imagining the best and worst of things, and maybe there wasn't anything at all, just nothing. That thought made me sad. Everybody had a story to tell, didn't they? Surely there was something motivating this person to live, compelled him to move forward and not just cease?

I went for days at a time not thinking about the man living downstairs, taking the noises below me for granted. Sometimes, when my life was peaceful and restive, I let my mind wander to more imaginative ventures. I made up his story. Today, he was trapped by a devastating illness, searching for a cure. Tomorrow, he might be a hit man, hiding from the law. Then my mind would always strike against a disturbing idea. What if he died? Would anybody know or care? I liked to think I would, even though he was a stranger to me. I would listen in the quiet of the evening for those small sounds, signs he was still there.

And then one evening, just as dusk was fading into night, I heard a voice. His voice, I was sure. It wasn't clear, but it was loud enough to startle me. I set my mug of tea down, followed by my book, and listened. I didn't breath. I heard footsteps, soft but distinct, heading toward the door. I sped stealthily to my front window, hiding myself in the gossamer curtains to see this mystery man. I waited.

I had only lived in my apartment for six months. It was quite possible the things I imagined about him were very erroneous. Perhaps it really was a lengthy illness keeping him indoors.

I heard the door open and shut. I trained my eyes on the black car beside mine, ducking low against the window sill. I saw him, but not clearly. He was tall and wore dark clothes. His shoulders were broad and straight. He wasn't stooped or bent; he wasn't old. His hair was light colored. The light was too dim to tell the exact shade.

Before he opened his car door, he stopped and looked up, in the direction of my window. Involuntarily, I shrunk lower and pressed back against the sheer curtain, hoping my dark hair wasn't visible against its pale color. I held my breath again and waited. When I heard the car door shut, I ventured another quick glance. The reflection of the nearby lamppost on the windshield made it difficult to see his face. I could not describe the features. It was a very pale face, but that fact was not shocking. His gaze, I'm sure, was still cast in my direction. I ducked below the window sill, out of sight, and I heard his car start. I waited for several pounding heartbeats and looked again. The car was gone.

That night when I slept, I dreamed of him, exactly as I saw him hours before, standing beside his car looking in my direction. I tried to forget but found it impossible. I wanted to see him clearly. I wanted to know his story.

The next morning, my car keys in hand as I stepped outside my door, I saw a paper tucked under the windshield wipers of my car. I pulled it out and read it.

I saw you last night.

(*)

It haunted me all day at work. Several times, I made a fist to rumple the paper and found I could not. I stared at it again and again. The writing seemed old fashioned, all loops and flourishes. The texture of the paper felt expensive, not cheap copier paper nor from a corner of an old envelope.

I savored those five words. My rational mind knew I should be afraid of this man. I didn't know him and he didn't know me. He could be a serial killer looking for his next victim or a crazed stalker, for all I knew. I should be afraid and I wasn't. I was curious and compelled. I wanted more and it emboldened me.

Searching through my desk, I found some old stationary and tore the letterhead off. The yellowing sheet sat before my wavering hand, mocking me. What should I say to this stranger whom might be anything or nothing? Should I say something witty or should I call him out for being weird? I settled for a simple acknowledgment.

I saw you too.

The note sat next to me on the passenger seat. I didn't do things like this. I didn't do reckless and crazy. I didn't talk to complete strangers. I was never forward. I liked the way I was before this stranger's note. I didn't want to change. But maybe, maybe it was time for a change.

I pulled my car into its space, the black car beside it. I got out and pondered its windshield for a long moment. The note weighed a thousand pounds in my hand. I should forget everything I knew and didn't know about this man. I should turn my back and lock my doors and windows, stay in for a couple of days. I should get a guard dog. I folded the slip of paper and tucked it beneath the wiper blade. It was done and it thrilled me. Excitement pulsed through me like an electric current. I never felt more alive. I went inside and tried to go about my normal routine, but nothing was normal anymore. Normal and routine were done with and I didn't care. I loved this new thrill, the thrill of the unknown possibilities.

I waited, listening for those small sounds. I barely moved, fearing my own sounds would drown out his. My wait was rewarded a few minutes after sunset. I heard the trill of a phone and his voice. Like I had done the previous night, I crept to my window, eyes barely above the sill, waiting. I heard his door open and shut, saw his tall figure move toward his car. He stopped, like last night, and gazed at my window. I didn't move, didn't even breathe. He turned away a few moments later and removed my insignificant scrap of paper. I wished I had written something wittier, more intelligent than my simple acknowledgment. He smiled and tucked the paper in a pocket. I sat back from the window, body thumping harshly to the close floor.

I was stunned. He smiled at my note, my stupid, silly, little note. It wasn't even that he smiled at it, but how he smiled. It was a genuine smile, a touching thing, really. His smile wasn't creepy like I half suspected it would be; it was nice, pleasant, and totally fitting. I sat on my floor for a few minutes, just amazed at the power of simple words on an unattractive piece of paper, written in a hurried hand. I made that power.

Eventually, I attempted to return to my normal nightly routine. It proved to be, as I suspected earlier, out of reach. Normal was long gone and wouldn't be returning any time soon. I didn't want it to either. I was officially done with routine.

I dreamed of him again, when I finally succumbed to sleep. The dream progressed in much the same way as the night before. Only this time, I saw him smile. Each time it seemed his smile grew brighter and broader. I wished I could see the rest of his face more clearly. I always wanted more than I was given.

The next morning, I was excited to start a new day. This rarely happened before. It wasn't that I dreaded going to work or beginning again; I just never really cared one way or another. Days just happened, good or bad. I let them happen, offering only an opinion or two and never a complaint. Today, it felt as if I was waking from a trance. It felt wonderful.

Again there was a note waiting for me. I saw it the moment the door closed behind me. The stark white was noticeable against the blue of the sky reflected in glass, a cloud resting on my windshield. I slipped it from underneath the wiper blade.

You want to know more.

Five words again. Five words of truth. I did want to know more. He didn't specify what more was, but I was certain I wanted to knowwhatever it was. This time, I didn't take so long to ponder over my response. In fact, I had to reign in my inner impulse; I needed to play it cool. I didn't want to seem too eager to jump into what might be certain doom.

Tearing a strip of paper form the same sheet I had used yesterday, I made my response. Looking down at what I wrote, the words in blue ink were alive, so vivid and sure.

Maybe.

I felt different. The office I worked in seemed different as well. Looking around, nothing had changed. It was as it had always been, a cramped office with outdated cubicles, dusty plants and stuffy people. Did I really work here? With my renewed sense of life, I found it hard to believe I worked in someplace so devoid of color and vibrancy. I saw a beige wall and I wanted to paint it yellow or blue or orange.

Returning home was so much different than yesterday. I didn't second guess myself when I left the note. I felt bold and oddly satisfied. I waited and listened, but not as breathlessly as I had the evening before. I heard him leave, earlier today, half an hour before the cloud-obscured sun went down. I stood between the parted curtains, in full view, waiting.

He saw me. He looked at me a long while before picking up my note. He smiled like he had in my dreams, broad and brightly. It was beautiful. His pale face was touched with muted rose of a cloudy sunset, illuminating his classical cut features. He was as fine as a statue come to life. He nodded to me, got in his car and left.

That night, when I dreamed of him, he reached out to me. And I reached out to him. I felt like I was glowing from the inside. I was a spark growing into flame.

In the morning, there was no note. There was a rose. An interesting rose, white tinged with red at the petal edges, rested on my windshield. I traced the red edges with my fingertips.

The note I left this evening was very simple. No words at all, just a symbol.

?

A/N:

Hi here! For some of you, this is the first time you've read anything written by me. I hope you enjoyed the story so far. You probably have some questions. I'd love to answer them, but at this point in time, I can't. Feel free to ask though. I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions.

I call this story my 'art' piece. I'm experimenting in a style I fell in love with a long time ago in high school. You might very well recognize the piece of literature I'm trying to replicate. I won't say what novel it is, just yet. I let you know in chapter 2 or 3, if you haven't already guessed it by then.

Of course, I am borrowing some from Twilight as well. The creepy romance, you know, the things that should be creepy but you still find romantic anyway kind of stuff. And I've also borrowed the heady romance that leaves you breathless, thus making this story feel a little oxygen starved and blue. Or at least that's what I feel when I write this.

This story does not have an update schedule. I hate schedules. But I will only post a chapter if I have another one to send on to my beta, and I will only pass a chapter on to my beta if I have another chapter completely written or nearly finished. This is also going to be a relativity short story. By the way, I normally don't do long author notes.