The Noisy Neighbour Who Became the Love of My Life
Spring, March, London. Back then, I lived in a university dormitory near the Thames. It had been a gruelling day, with a daunting exam looming the next morning, and all I craved was a little sleep. But the boy next door—the very one who would later become my husband—had his music blaring so loudly the windowpanes rattled.
At first, I hoped it wouldn’t last. An hour… then two. By eleven, the noise only swelled. My irritation simmered beneath the surface. Summoning my courage, I marched out and rapped on his door.
He didn’t open it. Instead, his voice barked from inside:
“Who’s there? What d’you want?”
Through gritted teeth, I asked him to turn it down. Silence fell. A minute later—nothing but quiet. I returned to my room, thinking that was the end of it. How wrong I was.
A week later, history repeated itself—note for note. This time, though, he actually opened the door. There he stood: tousled curls, bright blue eyes, the faint tang of cheap cider clinging to him. He struck me as brash, unwelcoming, wary—as though I’d come to scold him in the dead of night. But it was barely past ten. A few terse words were exchanged. He promised to keep it down. And he did.
Then came the Facebook message from a stranger. I knew instantly it was him. There was a dorm group where I’d foolishly listed my room number—likely how he’d found me.
At first, our exchanges were stiff, but soon they tipped into flirtation. I brushed it off—assumed he was tipsy, bored, killing time. Truthfully, it unsettled me; I’d always loathed drinkers, and the last thing I wanted was to tangle my life with one. Yet something kept me from cutting it off entirely.
After the spring break, I returned to dozens of notes plastered on my door. He wrote of being lovesick—how he couldn’t sleep, think, study. How I haunted his dreams. There were even clumsy poems. Romantic? Perhaps. To me, it felt smothering. I ignored him—no replies, no words, no acknowledgement.
Months slipped by. June arrived. I’d just aced a brutal exam, summer beckoned, and my spirits soared. Then, as I walked the path back to my building, someone called my name. I turned—there he was.
“Sorry,” he panted. “For everything. The music. The notes. For—for pushing in. It’s just…”
We paused at the entrance. He held the door, letting me pass. Then came the lift. For the first time, I noticed how attentively he moved—opening doors, stealing glances as if afraid to speak. Inside, he suddenly hit the *Stop* button.
I froze.
“What are you *doing*?” I nearly shrieked.
“Wait,” he murmured. “Just—hear me out. Please.”
He stepped closer. I retreated, but the wall stopped me. His fingers brushed my chin, tilting my face gently upward.
“Why d’you keep running?” he asked. “Why not give me one chance?”
I meant to snap, to shove him away. Yet his gaze held such raw honesty, my words failed. Then he kissed me. I should’ve pulled back. I didn’t. Call it magic, call it fate—in that heartbeat, everything changed.
He invited me to his room. I went.
Candlelight, dimness, wine glasses.
“I don’t drink,” I said.
“Tonight’s different,” he replied, smiling.
We talked. Properly. Honestly. For the first time, I saw past the loutish neighbour to someone tender and kind. His words disarmed me. His touch was gentle. He teased, paid compliments, twirled a lock of my hair. Later, he led me to the small shared terrace beneath a sky thick with stars. The moon silvered his face as he traced constellations, calling me his “shooting star.” I laughed, half-dazed it was real.
We stayed till dawn. When I dozed off, he draped his jacket over me, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and whispered,
“I’m not letting you go.”
Six years on, I’m married to that noisy neighbour who crashed into my life with songs, bad poetry, cider, and a stuck lift. Now, we’re expecting a child. And still, I marvel that it all began with a knock on a door—and a simple plea to turn the music down.
Love’s a peculiar thing. Sometimes it hides not in grand gestures, but in the unlikeliest moments. You just have to listen—to your heart, and yes, even to the racket next door.
