My neighbor asked me to pretend I wasn’t home.

I didn’t think anything of it at first.

It was around 9:40 p.m. I’d just gotten out of the shower and was in sweatpants, sitting on my couch with my laptop. I live alone in a small apartment complex — two floors, outdoor walkways, thin walls. The kind of place where you hear when someone microwaves something.

There was a knock on my door.

Not loud. Just quick.

I checked the peephole and saw my neighbor from 3B. We’ve only said hi a few times. She keeps to herself.

When I opened the door a few inches, she looked tense. Not crying. Not panicked. Just tight around the eyes.

“Hey,” she said quickly. “If anyone knocks tonight asking for me, can you just say you’re not home?”

I thought she was joking.

She wasn’t.

“Or just don’t answer,” she added. “Please.”

I asked if everything was okay.

She hesitated. “Yeah. I just don’t want to deal with someone.”

Someone.

Before I could ask anything else, she walked back down the walkway toward the stairs.

I locked my door and stood there for a minute. I told myself it was probably an ex or some drama I didn’t need to know about.

At 10:12 p.m., someone tried my doorknob.

Not a knock.

The handle moved.

Slowly.

Like someone checking it.

I froze.

There wasn’t any “hello?” No knock first. Just the handle turning once… then again, harder.

I don’t know why, but instead of staying quiet, I stepped toward the door and said, “Yeah?”

There was a pause.

Then a man’s voice: “Hey. Is Jenna here?”

That’s her name.

“I think you’ve got the wrong apartment,” I said.

Another pause.

“No,” he said. “She’s in 3B.”

I live in 3A. The numbers are clearly posted right next to the doors.

“She’s not here,” I said.

He stepped closer. I could see the shadow of his shoes under the crack.

“She told me she was here.”

My stomach dropped.

“I haven’t seen her,” I said.

Silence.

Then the handle moved again.

Harder this time. Like he was checking if I’d lied about locking it.

I backed up.

“Okay,” he said after a second.

His voice shifted. Less casual.

“If she comes back, tell her Eric stopped by.”

I didn’t respond.

I waited until I heard his footsteps go down the stairs before I moved.

I checked the peephole.

The walkway looked empty.

Then I looked at her door.

It was slightly open.

Just an inch or two.

I don’t know how long it had been like that.

I stared at it, debating whether to knock. I told myself she probably hadn’t shut it all the way.

When the hallway light flickered for a second, I thought I saw something move deeper inside her apartment.

Not fast.

Not dramatic.

Just a shift in the dark.

I stepped back into my place and locked the deadbolt again.

That’s when I noticed something.

There was a shoe outside my door.

A single black sneaker against the wall.

I don’t remember seeing it earlier.

I stood there for a long time, staring at it through the peephole.

About five minutes later, her door slowly closed.

I didn’t hear footsteps.

Didn’t hear voices.

It just… shut.

At 11:03 p.m., someone knocked on my door again.

Three slow knocks.

I didn’t answer.

They knocked again.

Then a voice — softer this time.

“You don’t have to lie for her.”

I didn’t move.

“She’s not there,” the voice said. “I checked.”

My chest felt tight. I don’t know what he meant by that.

After maybe a full minute of silence, I heard what sounded like someone leaning against my door.

Not trying the handle.

Just weight against it.

Then:

“You should’ve stayed out of it.”

The pressure lifted.

Footsteps went down the stairs.

I stayed awake most of the night.

Around 2 a.m., I checked the hallway camera feed our landlord gives tenants access to for package theft issues.

The footage showed him walking up the stairs around 10:11.

It showed him standing at my door.

It showed him leaving a few minutes later.

The angle doesn’t fully cover her doorway, so I couldn’t really see whether he ever stepped over there.

And I couldn’t see who closed her door.

This morning, 3B was shut.

No answer when I knocked.

Around noon I saw maintenance in the hallway and asked casually if the girl next door had moved out.

The guy shrugged and said, “People come and go.”

I asked when.

He said, “Recently.”

That was all he gave me.

The black sneaker is still outside my door.

No one has claimed it.

And I still don’t know if it’s hers.

Or his.

Or if it’s there to see whether I open the door again