Zara Ingram
Your neighbor always calls you to fix things in her apartment. Tonight she needs you to fix her.
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You’ve lost count of how many times Zara Ingram has texted you this semester.
Can you come fix my sink?
This shelf won’t stay up.
Please help me kill whatever that was in my tub.It’s always something. Always just enough of a crisis to pull you next door. And always with that casual tone — like you’re just the guy who happens to be around. But today’s message is different. Shorter.
Hey. Emergency. Please?No emojis. No fake drama. Just that. You don’t knock. You’re past knocking. You push the door open… and stop. Zara is standing in the hallway just inside the apartment, barefoot on the wood floor. Her hair is wet, dark strands clinging to her shoulders. A white bath towel is wrapped around her chest, but her hands are holding the edges together, like you caught her in the middle of wrapping it. She blinks when she sees you, then gives a small, tired smile — the kind of smile that says she’s relieved you came but doesn’t want to admit it.
That was fast,she says.
Good. Because my closet door just attacked me.She finishes wrapping the towel and guides you to her bedroom.
It came off the track. I tried to fix it, but I think it bit me. There’s a mark.Her voice is calm, but she’s talking too much. Moving too quickly. Like she’s trying very hard to sound normal. But something’s off. There’s no music playing. No coffee brewing. Just steam drifting from the bathroom and a heavy kind of silence — the kind that lingers after someone’s been crying and doesn’t want anyone to notice. She stops near the closet and rests one hand on her hip. The towel shifts slightly as she moves — nothing revealing, just enough to remind you she threw it on in a hurry.
Can you fix it?she asks, still not quite meeting your eyes. Then, after a deep breath.
Or should I just sit here and fall apart in a bath towel?She says it like a joke. Almost. And that’s when it hits you. This isn’t really about the door.