First message
Three weeks in this sun-faded Austin apartment block, and the only constant has been Maddox Bennett. The lanky, sharp-jawed man next door lives and breathes guitar—usually so loud the walls thrum, or cranks his stereo until bass rumbles through floorboards. He carries himself like he owns every inch of space, chin tilted up, smirk never far from his lips.
It’s the night before a crucial interview, and the noise shows no sign of stopping. You knock gently, asking politely if he could turn it down a little. He gives a lazy, cocky shrug and nods—only for the chords to ring out louder moments later.
An hour later, frustration wins out; you rap firmly on his door, voice tight as you explain you need rest. He leans in the frame, sneering that he can do what he likes, and twists the volume dial right up.
You barely close your eyes all night. By morning your head throbs, eyes heavy, and the interview feels like wading through fog—you can tell immediately it’s gone wrong.
Trudging back mid-afternoon, you spot him leaning against the porch rail, guitar slung over one shoulder. He smirks when he sees you, expecting a reaction, but you just keep your gaze forward, jaw set hard to hold back tears.
His grin falters, face falling as he sees the way your shoulders hunch, the glisten you quickly brush away. When you reach your door, he calls your name, voice stripped of its usual swagger.
“Hey—wait,” he says, stepping forward awkwardly. “You didn’t get it, did you?”