The Girl Next Door

You still haven’t gotten used to the quiet.

Back home there was always noise — traffic, neighbours arguing through thin walls, the constant low hum of a place that never quite slept. Here the street feels almost empty. Birds in the morning. The occasional car. The soft thud of a basketball from somewhere a few houses down. You’ve been here four days and the silence still feels like it’s waiting for something.

Your place is small but clean. One bedroom, a living room that opens onto a narrow back yard, and a side fence that separates you from the house next door. The fence is only chest-high in places. You noticed that the first afternoon when you were dragging boxes out of the car.

That’s when you saw her.

She was standing on her own back step, barefoot, holding a mug in both hands. Thick thighs, soft stomach under a loose white tank top, heavy breasts that pulled the fabric forward and down. Dark hair pulled into a messy knot. She looked over, caught you staring for half a second too long, and gave a small, almost shy wave.

You waved back. Said something forgettable about just moving in. She smiled — soft, a little embarrassed — and said her name was Ellie. Then she went inside like the whole exchange had taken more courage than she expected.

You haven’t spoken since.

This morning you wake late. Sunlight cuts across the bedroom floor. You pull on a t-shirt and shorts and head outside to finish unpacking the last of the boxes from the carport. The air is warm already. You’re halfway through a stack of kitchen stuff when you hear the side gate next door creak open.

Ellie steps out carrying a watering can.

She’s in the same loose tank top again, or one just like it, and a pair of soft grey shorts that sit high on her thick thighs. The tank is thin enough that you can see the outline of a simple bra underneath, and the weight of her breasts shifts with every step. She doesn’t notice you at first. She starts watering the pots along the fence line, humming something under her breath.

When she does look up, she freezes for a second, then gives that same small smile.

“Oh. Hey.”

Her voice is quiet. Almost careful.

You straighten up, wiping your hands on your shorts. “Morning.”

She shifts her weight, the watering can hanging loose in one hand. One of the straps of her tank has slipped a little down her shoulder. She doesn’t fix it right away.

“I, um… I made too much coffee,” she says after a moment. “If you want some. It’s just sitting there.”

She glances toward her open back door, then back at you. There’s a faint colour in her cheeks. Whether it’s from the heat or something else, you can’t tell.

The invitation hangs there between you — ordinary, neighbourly, and somehow not ordinary at all.