The Neighbor Who Never Forgot My Name

When I first moved into Maplewood Apartments, I didn’t know anyone. I was fresh out of college, broke, and just trying to survive the city. My new place was small, with cracked paint and creaky floors, but it was mine — and I was proud of it.

The first person I met was Mr. Howard, the man who lived across the hall.

He was polite, quiet, and always greeted me by name. “Good morning, Aisha,” he’d say, every single day, with a soft smile and a nod.

At first, it felt comforting — having a neighbor who remembered me.

But soon, it started to feel… different.

I didn’t think much about it at first. He was in his late 50s, maybe early 60s, always wearing the same gray sweater and thick glasses. The kind of man who blended into the background — harmless, ordinary.

But one evening, when I came home late from work, I noticed something strange.

As I unlocked my door, I saw him standing at the end of the hallway — completely still, watching me.

He smiled when our eyes met and said, “You shouldn’t walk alone this late.”

Then he turned and disappeared into his apartment.

I told myself he was just being protective.

That’s what nice neighbors do. Right?

A week later, I came home to find a small box on my doormat. Inside was a mug — white, with my name painted on it in neat blue letters.

There was no note.

I asked around, but no one else had received anything. Just me.

When I saw Mr. Howard the next morning, he smiled and said, “You work hard. You deserve nice things.”

That’s when the unease started.

Over the next few weeks, I kept noticing little things.

Sometimes, my door mat would be slightly moved.

Sometimes, my mail looked like it had been touched.

Once, my window — which I knew I had locked — was open when I got home.

I told my friend Zara about it, half-jokingly.

She said, “You’re probably overthinking. He’s just lonely.”

I wanted to believe that.

Until the night I woke up to footsteps in my living room.

It was around 2 a.m.

At first, I thought it was a dream — a creak, a soft shuffle, the sound of something being placed on the table.

Then I heard it again.

I froze, holding my breath. My phone was on the bedside table, just a few inches away, but I didn’t dare move.

The sound stopped.

Then, slowly, my bedroom door handle turned.

I screamed. Loud.

The footsteps ran.

By the time I reached the living room, the door was open — swinging slightly in the night air.

I called the police.

They searched the apartment, but found nothing missing, no signs of forced entry. They said maybe I forgot to lock up.

But when the officer asked if I suspected anyone, one name came to mind immediately.

Mr. Howard.

The officer knocked on his door.

No answer.

The next morning, his apartment was empty.

Completely empty. No furniture, no mail, no trace of anyone ever living there.

The landlord said he had moved out that very morning — paid cash, no forwarding address.

It didn’t make sense.

He’d lived there for years. Why would he suddenly disappear overnight?

Two days later, a letter arrived. No return address.

Inside was a photo — of me, sitting by my window, reading.

Taken from outside my apartment.

On the back, it said:

“You look peaceful when you’re home.”

I couldn’t breathe.

I packed my things that same night and left.

I didn’t care about the lease, the rent, or my job. I just wanted to get away.

It took months before I could sleep without checking the locks three times.

I changed my number, my address, even my social media accounts.

And for a while, I thought it was over.

Until a year later.

I was at a café in a new city, scrolling through my phone, when the waitress brought me my drink — a cappuccino in a white mug with my name painted in blue.

My hands shook as I asked where it came from.

She smiled and said, “Oh, one of our regulars brought it in this morning. Said it was for you.”

I looked around the café.

No one familiar. No sign of him.

But on the saucer beneath the mug was a small folded note.

It said:

“I never forget names.”

That night, I didn’t sleep.

The police said there wasn’t much they could do — no threat, no address, no proof he was even near me.

But deep down, I know.

He’s still out there.

Still watching.

Still remembering.

And every time I hear someone say my name from behind me,

I wonder —

Is it just a stranger…

or is it him?

Reflection: What This Story Teaches

Obsessive behavior and stalking often begin as small gestures — kindness, attention, “just being friendly.”

But when boundaries blur, danger hides in plain sight.

If something feels wrong — even slightly — trust your instincts.

Silence and politeness are never worth your safety.

Call for help. Tell someone. Change your locks.

Because sometimes, the most dangerous people aren’t strangers in the dark —

They’re the ones who smile at you in daylight.