The Noisy Neighbour Who Stole My Heart
Spring, March, London. I was living in a university dormitory on the South Bank, drowning under the weight of tomorrow’s impossible exam, desperate for even a wink of sleep. But the boy next door—the one who would someday become my husband—had cranked up his music so loud the windows trembled in their frames.
At first, I waited, praying it wouldn’t last. An hour, two… Eleven p.m., and the bass only grew heavier. My patience frayed. Gathering my nerve, I marched down the hall and rapped on his door.
He didn’t open it. Instead, a rough voice barked through the wood: *”Who’s there? What d’you want?”*
Clenching my fists, I asked—calmly—to turn it down. Silence. A beat, then the music died. I retreated, thinking that was the end. Oh, how wrong I was.
A week later, the same scene unfolded. But this time, the door swung open. There he stood: tousled curls, eyes like storm-blue skies, reeking of cheap wine. Surly, guarded, as if I’d come to scold him at three in the morning—though it was barely ten. We exchanged clipped words; he promised to keep quiet. And he did.
Then, a Facebook message from a stranger. I knew instantly—*him*. Our dorm group had my room number posted, and there he was, typing. Dry small talk melted into sly banter. I brushed it off—just drunk and bored, surely. The thought of tangled sheets and slurred confessions repelled me. Yet something kept me from blocking him.
After Easter break, I returned to dozens of notes plastered on my door. Love letters. Ramblings about sleepless nights, dreams of me, even terrible poetry. Romantic? More like suffocating. I ignored them all—no replies, no glances, nothing.
Months passed. June arrived, golden and warm. I’d aced my exams, summer hummed in the air, and life felt light. Then—*my name*, called across the quad. I turned. *Him.*
*”Sorry,”* he panted. *”For the noise. The notes. For—for pushing. I just…”*
We hovered at the entrance. He held the door, deferential. The lift hummed between floors. For the first time, I noticed his quiet attentiveness—how he hesitated before speaking, as if words might shatter the air. Then—a jolt. He hit *STOP*.
I froze.
*”What are you doing?!”* My voice frayed at the edges.
*”Wait,”* he whispered. *”Please.”*
He stepped closer. I recoiled, but the wall caught me. Fingers brushed my chin, tilting my face up. *”Why d’you run? Why won’t you let me in?”*
I meant to snap, to shove him away. But his eyes—raw, unguarded—stole my voice. Then his lips found mine. I should’ve pulled back. I didn’t. Call it magic, madness, fate—but everything shifted in that breath.
He invited me to his room. I went.
Candlelight. Half-shadow. A bottle of Merlot.
*”I don’t drink,”* I said.
*”Tonight’s different,”* he replied, smiling.
We talked. Really talked. Not the loud-mouthed lad from next door, but someone tender, achingly kind. His jokes warmed me; his hands were gentle. He twisted a lock of my hair around his finger, led me to the rooftop terrace. Moon-washed and endless, he traced constellations with his fingertip, called me his *”shooting star.”* I laughed, dizzy with disbelief.
Dawn found us still there. When I dozed, he draped his jacket over me, kissed my forehead. *”I’m not letting go,”* he murmured.
Six years on, I’m married to that noisy neighbour—the one who barged into my life with music, bad poetry, and a stuck lift. We’re expecting. And I still can’t believe it began with a knock and a plea to *turn it down.*
Love’s a strange creature. It doesn’t always arrive with flowers. Sometimes, it’s a thumping bass through thin walls—if you dare to listen.