Across the Hall

Maggie

I don’t know why I even bother paying for this damn apartment. I’m barely here. Most nights, I’m drowning in double shifts at the diner, slinging coffee and greasy burgers to truckers and night owls who barely leave a tip. By the time I drag myself home, my body aches like I’ve been hit by a semi, and the only thing waiting for me is a chipped kitchen counter, yellow cabinets that haven’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, and a stove that works when it feels like it. The fridge hums too loud, the floor creaks like it’s whispering secrets, and the water takes forever to turn hot. But it’s mine. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I fork over rent every month.

I ran away at fifteen, walked out the front door while my mom was too strung out to notice. Left with a backpack, fifty-three bucks I swiped from her purse, and the kind of survival instinct you only get when you grow up knowing you can’t count on anyone but yourself. Back then, I thought freedom would feel different—lighter, maybe. Instead, it feels like exhaustion, like the smell of burnt coffee in my uniform and the ache in my feet that never quite goes away.

But I don’t regret leaving. Not for a second. Not when I remember the way she used to stare through me, more interested in chasing the next high than looking at her own daughter. Some nights, when the diner is slow, and the world outside is nothing but flickering streetlights and the occasional drunk stumbling past, I wonder if she even remembers I exist. Then I shake the thought away.

I have my own life now. Even if it’s just a shitty apartment and a name tag that says Maggie.

The building is trash. The paint peels in sad little curls down the hallway, and the elevator jerks like it’s deciding whether or not to plummet every time you step inside. There’s a loud snorer on the other side of my paper-thin bedroom wall, and it feels like the guy is sawing logs directly into my skull at three in the morning. Ms. Levinson, the old lady two doors down, turns Jeopardy! up so loud I swear Alex Trebek is haunting the damn place, and she doesn’t just watch—she shouts the answers, even when she’s wrong. And then there are the douchebags on the second floor. I don’t know their names, but I know their type—loud, always drinking, always laughing like they don’t have a care in the world. They leave beer cans in the stairwell, slam their doors at all hours, and think the hallway is their personal smoking lounge.

The only saving grace in this dump is the guy across the hall. A cop. I don’t know his name, but I know the look—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that don’t miss much. Brooding type. Always comes home late, uniform half undone, keys jingling in his hand as he unlocks his door without a word. I’ve never heard him say hello, never seen him so much as nod in my direction, but I know he’s watching. Not in a creepy way—just… aware. Like he’s got some built-in radar for trouble. And in a place like this, I bet that radar goes off a lot.

Not that it’s any of my business. I keep my head down, my tips folded tight in my apron pocket, and my door locked. That’s how you survive places like this. Keep to yourself. Don’t get involved.

And yet, every time I hear his heavy boots in the hallway, I catch myself listening.

It’s good to have a cop in the building. Keeps most of the trouble away—at least the kind that would normally thrive in a place like this. No random break-ins, no tweakers trying to jimmy open doors in the middle of the night. Even the landlord, a greasy little bastard with shifty eyes and a tendency to “forget” about fixing things, keeps his distance. I’ve dealt with my fair share of scumbag landlords before—ones who think if you’re a single woman living alone, they can “overlook” a late payment in exchange for a favor. Not this guy, though. He might be a cheap-ass, but he’s smart enough not to try anything with a cop living right across the hall.

And then there are the creeps.

I’ve had panties stolen before. It’s always the same type of guy—the ones who linger in the laundry room too long, who stare just a little too hard when they think you’re not looking. One time, back at my last place, I caught some asshole red-handed rifling through my basket, holding a lace thong like it was a damn prize. I raised hell, but the landlord just shrugged. “Boys will be boys,” he said, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t disgusting.

But not here.

Not in this building.

Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s the fact that most of the guys here don’t want to risk pissing off a cop. Either way, I don’t have to worry about finding my underwear missing or some perv breathing down my neck when I’m checking my mail. And while I don’t know the guy across the hall, I know enough. He walks like someone who doesn’t tolerate bullshit. He carries himself like someone who’s had to break more than a few noses.

And for some reason, that makes me feel safer than I’d ever admit.

Sometimes I see him carrying a six-pack home, usually on game nights. Always the same brand—cheap, nothing fancy. Just something to knock back while he unwinds. He never carries more than that, never stumbles in drunk or reeks of whiskey like some of the other guys in the building. Just a six-pack, a tired expression, and that same sharp-eyed awareness, like even off duty, he can’t quite switch it off.

I’ve caught glimpses of him when his door swings open—a dark, sparsely furnished apartment, the flicker of a TV playing some late-night sports recap. No decorations, no warmth. Just a couch, a coffee table stacked with papers, and the dull glow of a lamp that barely cuts through the shadows. A man who lives there, but not really.

Sometimes, when I step into the hallway at the right time, I hear the sound of the game through his door—low commentary, the occasional swell of the crowd roaring through the speakers. I wonder if he yells at the TV, if he’s the type to throw his hat when his team screws up, or if he just watches in silence, jaw tight, beer in hand.

I don’t know why I care.

Maybe because he’s the only person in this building I don’t have a read on. The loud ones, the assholes, the loners—I’ve got them all figured out. But him? He’s a question mark. A cop who keeps his head down, who doesn’t make small talk, who’s never once knocked on my door even though I know he hears the same bullshit I do.

It should make him feel like just another stranger. But it doesn’t.

Because I know if trouble ever came knocking, he’d be the first one to answer.