cushion beside me.
I stared at it.
Tea slowly spread across the fabric.
This time, I didn’t have to wonder where it came from.
I tried cleaning the cushion that evening.
The stain remained.
So I went upstairs again.
Daniel opened his door.
“You’re still throwing tea bags over the balcony.”
He shrugged.
“It’s a tea bag.”
I waited, thinking perhaps I’d misunderstood his tone.
“It stains. I’ve already lost a towel. Now I’ve got a stained cushion.”
Daniel leaned against his doorframe.
“You live below me.”
I stared at him.
“That’s how apartment buildings work.”
“No. Living underneath someone doesn’t mean their rubbish becomes mine.”
He smiled.
Not warmly.
“You should be glad it’s only tea.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying it could be worse.”
Then he closed the door.
I remained in the hallway for almost a minute.
That conversation changed everything.
Until
