The thumping bass from next door was a physical assault. It vibrated through the floorboards, a relentless reminder of the emptiness in his own apartment. He’d told her a thousand times, “Let’s just move in together. What’s the point in being apart?” Now, the point was excruciatingly clear: the relentless, throbbing pulse of someone else’s joy, a stark contrast to his own silence. He stumbled to the window, his hand pressed to his chest, as if to contain the ache.
He hadn't eaten all day. The takeout containers on the coffee table were gathering dust, the food untouched. The music shifted, became a different song, and a fresh wave of nausea washed over him. He wanted to scream, to smash something, anything. Instead, he just stood there, swaying slightly, feeling the cold glass against his forehead as the neighbor's party raged on.
The doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Gable, a small woman with a floral dressing gown and a pinched face. "Could you turn it down, dear? I can't hear the television." His mouth felt thick, dry. He managed a nod, a pathetic gesture of agreement that felt hollow. He closed the door and turned back to the window, the music pounding in his ears, a soundtrack to his misery.