Thin Walls
"The new neighbor in 4B hears everything through the walls. Every argument. Every silence. Every night he spends alone. She starts leaving notes. He starts leaving them back. Some conversations don't need words."
The first note appears under my door on a Tuesday.
I heard you crying last night. Are you okay?
No signature. No name. Just a small piece of paper, folded once, slipped through the gap between my door and the floor.
I wasn't crying.
Was I?
I moved into 4A three weeks ago.
Fresh start. New city. The kind of desperate relocation you make when your life falls apart and you need to be somewhere—anywhere—that doesn't remind you of her.
The apartment is small. One bedroom, one bath, a kitchen that barely fits a table. The walls are thin. I can hear my neighbors on all sides—the couple above me fighting, the guy below me playing video games, and whoever lives in 4B doing... everything.
Walking. Cooking. Watching TV. Laughing at things I can't hear.
Taking showers.
I try not to think about the showers.
The second note comes on Friday.
You've been listening to the same sad playlist for three days. Try something with a beat. It helps.
I stare at the paper. Turn up my music. Then turn it down.
She's right. The same ten songs, on repeat, for three days.
I write back.
Any recommendations?
I slide it under 4B's door. Wait. Listen.
Footsteps. The soft rustle of paper being picked up. A laugh—low, warm, the kind of laugh that sounds like honey.
Then: Try reggaeton. Trust me.
We become note-passers.
Every day, sometimes twice. Little slips of paper, conversations in fragments.
Did you burn something? I can smell smoke.
Tried to cook. Failed. Ordering pizza.
Get the margherita from Luigi's. Best in the building.
You know the pizza rankings?
I know everything about this building. Three years.
Teach me.
Where do I start?
I start spending more time at home. Start listening for her—her footsteps, her music, the sound of her moving through her apartment. Start leaving notes about nothing just to get notes back.
Can't sleep.
Me neither. Too quiet.
Want to make noise?
A long pause. Then:
What kind of noise?
I don't answer. I don't know how.
Week Four
I see her for the first time.
She's coming out of 4B as I'm leaving for work. Our doors are maybe six feet apart. She stops. I stop.
She's not what I expected.
Latina, maybe mid-thirties, with dark curly hair that falls past her shoulders. She's wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that can't hide the curves underneath—thick hips, rounded belly, breasts that strain against the fabric. She's five-four, maybe five-five, and she's looking at me.
"You're the sad music guy," she says.
"You're the note girl."
She smiles. "Sofia."
"Marcus."
"I know." She glances at my door. "The mailboxes have names."
"Right."
Silence. The kind that should be awkward but isn't.
"You look better," she says finally. "Than you sound, I mean. Through the walls."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." She steps closer. Her perfume is vanilla and something spicy. "Keep listening to the reggaeton. It's working."
She walks past me. Her hip brushes mine—accident or intention, I can't tell.
I watch her go.
The notes change.
I heard you cooking. Smelled good.
Your shower is long in the mornings.
You talk in your sleep sometimes. Who's Rebecca?
Rebecca is my ex. The reason I moved here. The reason I spent three days crying to the same sad playlist.
Someone I'm trying to forget.
Is it working?
Not yet.
That night, I hear her through the wall. Soft sounds. Rhythmic. A moan, barely audible, muffled by plaster and paint.
She's touching herself.
I lie in bed and listen. Try not to. Fail.
Who are you thinking about?
The note appears the next morning.
Who do you think?
Week Six
We escalate.
I heard you last night.
I know. I wasn't quiet.
Were you thinking about me?
Were you listening?
Yes.
Then you know the answer.
I jerk off that night thinking about her. Thick thighs. Heavy breasts. That laugh like honey. I don't try to be quiet. I want her to hear.
The next morning:
You're loud too.
Did it bother you?
The opposite.
We keep passing notes. Keep listening through walls. Keep touching ourselves while the other listens, a strange intimacy that never crosses the six feet between our doors.
Until it does.
Week Eight
Come over tonight.
The note is different. No question mark. No games.
I read it ten times.
I knock on her door at eight.
Her apartment is the mirror of mine.
Same layout, same small kitchen, same thin walls. But warmer somehow. Candles. Soft music. The smell of something cooking.
"You came," she says.
"You asked."
She's wearing a dress—red, tight, showcasing every curve she usually hides. Her belly rounds beneath the fabric. Her breasts threaten to spill over the neckline. Her thick thighs are bare, smooth, golden-brown.
"Wine?" she asks.
"Yes."
We drink. We talk. Really talk, not in notes—about her divorce, my breakup, the loneliness that drove us both to leave messages under each other's doors.
"I've wanted to knock for weeks," she admits. "But the notes felt safer."
"Safer how?"
"I didn't know if you wanted—" She gestures at herself. At her body. "This."
"Sofia."
"Men say they do. Then they don't. Or they do, but only in secret. Only when no one's looking."
"I've been listening to you through a wall for two months." I set down my wine. Move closer. "I've touched myself thinking about you more times than I can count. I've imagined what your skin feels like, what you taste like, what sounds you'd make if I—"
"If you what?"
"If I did this."
I kiss her.
She tastes like wine and heat.
Her body is soft against mine—softer than I imagined, which is saying something because I've imagined a lot. I pull her closer, and she melts into me, her breasts pressing against my chest, her belly against mine.
"Dios mío," she breathes when we break apart. "You kiss like you've been waiting."
"I have."
"Then don't wait anymore."
She takes my hand. Leads me to her bedroom. Same layout as mine—bed against the shared wall, the wall I've pressed my ear to, listening.
"I've heard you from here," she says. "Every night. Jerking off. Moaning. I'd lie right here and—"
"Show me."
She pushes me onto the bed. Straddles me. Her dress rides up, and I can feel the heat of her through my jeans.
"I'd touch myself like this." She rolls her hips. Grinds against my hardening cock. "Pretending it was you. Pretending you were inside me."
I grab her hips. So much flesh. So much warmth.
"And what would I do?"
"You'd worship me." She pulls down the straps of her dress. Frees her breasts—heavy, round, nipples dark and hard. "Like I deserve to be worshipped."
I sit up. Take one breast in my mouth. Suck, bite, worship like she commanded. She cries out—the same moan I've heard through the wall, but louder now. Unfiltered.
"Yes—like that—Dios—"
I switch to the other breast. Her hips keep moving, grinding, driving us both crazy. I need to be inside her. Need it like I need air.
"Sofia—"
"I know." She climbs off. Pulls down her dress. She's not wearing underwear. "I know what you need."
She turns around. Bends over the bed. Looks at me over her shoulder.
"Take it."
I shed my clothes. Position myself behind her.
Her ass is a masterpiece. Two round globes, dimpled and soft, leading to thick thighs and the glistening pink of her pussy. She's wet—has been wet since I walked in, probably.
"I've wanted this since the first note," she says. "Since I heard you crying and wanted to make you feel better."
"You did."
"Not like this." She pushes back against me. "This is better."
I slide inside her.
She gasps—deep, guttural, the sound I've been imagining for months. She's tight and wet and hot, her walls gripping me as I sink deeper.
"Fuck," I groan. "You feel—"
"I know." She starts to move. Rocking back against me. "I know."
I grab her hips and thrust. We find a rhythm—hard and deep, the way we both need it. Her ass ripples with each impact. Her moans fill the room.
"The neighbors—" she gasps.
"Let them hear."
She laughs—that honey laugh, interrupted by a moan. "Now who's making noise?"
I reach around. Find her clit. Circle it while I fuck her, and her laughter turns to whimpers.
"I'm close—Marcus—I'm—"
"Come for me. Let the whole building hear."
She screams.
Her pussy clamps down, pulsing around my cock. Her body shakes. I fuck her through it, riding her orgasm, feeling every spasm.
"Inside," she begs. "Fill me—please—"
I let go.
Afterward, we lie tangled in her sheets.
Her head on my chest. Her leg over mine. Her body soft and warm against me.
"So," she says. "Was I worth the wait?"
"Every note."
She laughs. Traces patterns on my skin.
"What happens now?"
"Now?" I kiss her forehead. "Now we stop passing notes. Now I knock on your door like a normal person."
"That sounds boring."
"We could still listen through the walls."
"I like that." She rolls on top of me. Already moving, already wanting more. "I like knowing you can hear me."
"I like hearing you."
She sinks down. Takes me inside her again.
"Then listen."
Six Months Later
I move into 4B.
Sofia's apartment. Our apartment. We still have thin walls, still hear the couple above us fighting, still listen to the guy below us playing video games.
But we don't need notes anymore.
We have something better.
"Te amo," she whispers in the dark.
I hold her close. All that softness. All that warmth.
"I love you too."
Through the wall, someone starts playing sad music. A new neighbor. A new heartbreak.
Sofia looks at me. Smiles.
"Should we leave a note?"
"Yeah." I kiss her. "Let's pay it forward."
She laughs.
And in apartment 4A, a small piece of paper slides under the door.
The walls are thin. But it gets better. Trust me.