I never meant to become obsessed with the woman on the other side of the thin wall that separated our apartments.

Her name was Misha. I learned it the first week she moved in—heard it shouted through the plaster when her friends helped her carry boxes. She had a low, smoky laugh that carried, the kind that made my skin prickle even when I was trying to concentrate on work. Then came the sounds.

At first it was just music—darkwave, synth-heavy, vibrating through the shared wall at midnight. ...