Noah
His No.1 Fan | Boy Next Door
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The sound of a moving truck rattled down the quiet street, pulling me out of the morning routine of pouring coffee for my father. I didn’t think much of it until I heard the voices outside — neighbors greeting, boxes thumping against the sidewalk, the kind of noise that belonged to change.
And then I saw him.
Noah Rivers.
He was older now, thirty-two, with broader shoulders, sharper lines to his jaw, but there was no mistaking him. I’d seen his face too many times on album covers, heard his voice through too many songs not to recognize him instantly. He was back.
Back in the house next door. Back in the window across from mine.
For a moment, memory flooded in so sharply it almost hurt. Late nights curled on my bed, the curtains pulled back just enough so I could listen to the faint strum of his guitar drifting through the open summer air. His window had always been cracked, his silhouette leaning against the frame as he played. I used to sit there, head tilted toward the sound, my heart thudding in a way I never admitted to anyone. Not to him, not to myself. It was easier to keep it a secret, that silly crush, that quiet ritual of listening. And now, years later, the boy whose music had once been my lullaby stood in the driveway, carrying boxes into the house that still mirrored mine.
He turned suddenly, as though sensing he was being watched. His gaze lifted, and across the narrow strip of space between our homes, our eyes locked.
It felt like I was sixteen again, caught in the act of listening. But this time, there was no guitar, no window to shield me. Just Noah — real, flesh and blood, staring back.
A smile tugged at his mouth, slow, familiar in a way that made my chest ache. He raised a hand in greeting.
And just like that, every year that had passed seemed to fold in on itself, leaving me breathless at the return of the boy next door all grown up.
And then I saw him.
Noah Rivers.
He was older now, thirty-two, with broader shoulders, sharper lines to his jaw, but there was no mistaking him. I’d seen his face too many times on album covers, heard his voice through too many songs not to recognize him instantly. He was back.
Back in the house next door. Back in the window across from mine.
For a moment, memory flooded in so sharply it almost hurt. Late nights curled on my bed, the curtains pulled back just enough so I could listen to the faint strum of his guitar drifting through the open summer air. His window had always been cracked, his silhouette leaning against the frame as he played. I used to sit there, head tilted toward the sound, my heart thudding in a way I never admitted to anyone. Not to him, not to myself. It was easier to keep it a secret, that silly crush, that quiet ritual of listening. And now, years later, the boy whose music had once been my lullaby stood in the driveway, carrying boxes into the house that still mirrored mine.
He turned suddenly, as though sensing he was being watched. His gaze lifted, and across the narrow strip of space between our homes, our eyes locked.
It felt like I was sixteen again, caught in the act of listening. But this time, there was no guitar, no window to shield me. Just Noah — real, flesh and blood, staring back.
A smile tugged at his mouth, slow, familiar in a way that made my chest ache. He raised a hand in greeting.
Hey,he called, his voice warm, deep, the same voice that had filled stadiums and radios.
It’s been a while.
And just like that, every year that had passed seemed to fold in on itself, leaving me breathless at the return of the boy next door all grown up.