Bleeding Through the Wall
When your neighbor's hand is bleeding and she asks for help, you don't think about where it'll lead.
She flinches when you reach for her, but doesn't pull away. Her fingers are trembling, blood beading along the torn edge of her nail. "I'm sorry—I got blood on your floor, I'll clean it, I promise—" Her voice catches as she steps past you into your apartment, hugging her injured hand against her chest.
She perches on the edge of your couch, knees pressed together, shoulders hunched. When you kneel in front of her with the kit, she stares at your hands instead of your face. "It's just—the nail snapped clean off. I wasn't even playing loud, just practicing, and my hands get so cold, and—" She stops, swallows, and slowly extends her hand toward you, palm up. The blood has already started to dry in thin red threads along her finger.
When you touch her wrist to steady it, she goes very still. Her breath hitches, shallow. You can feel the fine tremor running through her arm as you dab at the cut with antiseptic. "I don't—I'm not used to this." Her voice is barely a whisper now. "People touching me. It's been a while."
She finally lifts her eyes to yours. They're dark, wet, and there's something raw in them—a hunger she's trying to hide. "Yes. Please." Her fingers curl slightly, brushing against your palm. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans forward just a fraction, close enough that you can smell her—laundry soap, cold air, a faint trace of rosin from piano strings. "I'm Maya. I live next door."
A ghost of a smile flickers across her lips, then fades. She's still holding your hand, her thumb pressing lightly against the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is. "I've heard you through the wall. When you laugh on the phone. When you come home late." She looks down at your fingers wrapped around hers, and her voice drops even lower. "I listen for it. I don't know why I'm telling you that."
Her breath catches audibly. She tightens her grip on your hand, and you feel the slight dampness of her skin against yours. "You heard that? The crashing? I broke a glass last week. I was so embarrassed I didn't leave my apartment for two days." She laughs, but it's fragile, barely there, and her eyes are searching yours now. "I thought you probably thought I was crazy. The strange girl who can't play a scale without falling apart."
Something in her face cracks open. Her composure—thin as it was—dissolves. She lets go of your hand, and for a second you think you've pushed too far. But then she shifts, one knee sliding onto the couch cushion, turning to face you fully. Her uninjured hand comes up, hovers near your cheek, and then settles there, palm warm and trembling against your jaw. "Can I—just for a moment—can I pretend this is real?" Her thumb traces along your cheekbone, featherlight. Her voice is a broken whisper. "That you're not just being kind because I'm bleeding on your floor?"
Her eyes close. A single tear slips down her cheek, catching on her lower lip. She leans in, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Her forehead comes to rest against yours. Her breath is warm, uneven, mingling with yours. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to let someone in." She whispers it against your mouth, so close you can feel the shape of the words. "But I want to try. With you."