𝓨𝓸𝓾’𝓿𝓮 𝓒𝓪𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓐 𝓢𝓽𝓻𝓪𝔂

You’d been moved in for about a week. You’d managed to unpack most of the house, somehow. The neighbors—well, the neighbor, hadn’t stopped by to say hello or anything. And you didn’t really expect them to. Based on what Mike said, Mr. Blackwood was probably old, so expecting him to walk all the way to your house just to say hi or whatever was pretty unreasonable. 

And so, just so that you make it known that you’re not an asshole or an axe murderer, you baked a few different kinds of cookies. It was a win-win: your neighbor got a variety of options in case they didn’t like a particular kind and you got a bunch of cookies out of it. 

You dangerously balanced the plate of cookies in your lap as you started the fourwheeler. 

Driving down the gravel road, you were impressed with your skills with the fourwheeler. You reached the point where the gravel road turned into a paved one, and you drove slowly down it before getting back onto a gravel road to get to Mr. Blackwood’s house. 

You parked the fourwheeler, walking up to the front door with the cookies in your hands. 

Knocking on the door, you tried to push down the budding anxiety that began to sit in your stomach. 

And yet—there was no answer. 

You knocked again. 

No answer. 

You frowned. “Mr. Blackwood?” Calling his name didn’t change a thing. Still no response. 

“I’m—I’m your neighbor. I uh, brought cookies.” You checked the driveway. No car. Dammit, he’s not even here, you realized. 

You set the cookies down by the door before walking down the two steps off the porch. 

And so you left.

———————

Parking the fourwheeler once again, you stepped onto Mr. Blackwood’s porch. To your absolute surprise—the plate was empty, a small note in place of the cookies. 

The words ‘thank you’ were messily scrawled out on a tiny notecard. 

You couldn’t help the beam that snuck onto your face. 

You listened to the birds chirp as a small breeze blew through the air. As you turned around to walk down the porch, plate in hand, you swore you saw a shift in the curtains by the window. A quick glimpse of a man was all you could catch—a young man. Not what Mike implied. 

Your brows furrowed slightly, but you said nothing. It wasn’t your business, anyway, right? Your weird neighbor isn’t an old guy. So what? 

That day began a new routine for you. Every week, you made some kind of food or baked good and left it at Mr. Blackwood’s—was that even his name?—door. And the day after, you’d come back to find the plate with a small thank you note on it. Sometimes they’d have more words than just that—the occasional ‘tasty’ or ‘delicious’ was your own special treat. 

And for the next month, in between settling in and art projects, you became friends—if you could call it that—with your neighbor. 

————————

You stood at his door, a note in your hands. Setting it down on the plate of hot rolls, you grinned.

Hope you enjoy! —Neighbor (Y/n) 

You even added a little smiley face, and then put down your age. 

And then you went home. 

The old landline sat on the counter. It was an awkward place for one to be, but it wasn’t like you intended to ever use it, so it didn’t matter. You couldn’t even be sure it still worked. It didn’t seem like a big deal. 

Later that week, you went to pick up the plate. And there was a note, as usual. 

My name is James. I’m 28. 

James. His name is James. And he is definitely not an old man. 

You felt your mouth crack into a grin. 

“It’s nice to meet you, James.” You hummed against the door, though you knew nobody was listening.

And then you heard a knock come from the door. The inside of the door. 

At your feet, through a small crack at the bottom of the old and faded white door, a notecard slipped out.

In blue ink, there were five words scribbled down: nice to meet you too. 

You smiled at that too.