NORDISM

  you had moved in two days ago. with the help of a few friends, you managed to settle in nicely, adorning your home with an interior design that suited you. most of the neighbors you had seen on your first day here, while you were busy moving box after box from the car. from what you’ve experienced so far, they were kind, and they treated you like a human being.

  the city noise instantly cuts off when you step inside. in the high-ceilinged hallway, you eye the row of mailboxes to see if the mailman left you a gift. but nothing for you.

  your footsteps echoed and bounced off the tunnel walls until you stepped into the light again, the courtyard feeling like a miniature village square. connected, tall buildings greeted you once again. potted plants, parked bikes, and lined trash cans had become a familiar sight since moving here. vines collected on the pipes, along the walls, hugging the architecture tightly, threatening to consume it whole. 

  a neighbor, faceless because of your own indifference, waved at you from their balcony, half-naked and shameless enough to own it. repulsive, yet you still nodded at him before walking into your building. 

  when you opened the door, another neighbor was exiting, and your shoulders crashed as he walked past you. you didn’t care enough to turn to him and ask him the ever-so-cliché question of “What’s your problem?” you weren’t his therapist. his past was his to keep. before swifting away, you caught the blur of burgundy strands and the pink flush in his ears.

  huh.

  no doubt, it was a hot day that day. the heatwave had gotten worse. the crawling sensation surfaced just thinking of it. 

  by the time you got inside your apartment, the rain droplets hit your window.

  9th of July, 2023 — Courtyard.

  the air was suffocating and humid after two days of ceaseless rain. flower pots were practically half water, half dirt, and drops fell with rhythm from the balconies. you walked wrapped in your favorite jacket, an umbrella swinging on your side, hooked on your finger. prepared for another surprise from the gods above. 

  the heart of the neighborhood, the so-called courtyard, especially in the morning, gleamed with liveness from every corner. two grandmas brought their chairs outside and talked about the rain—one complaining about it while the other said it was a gift for the plants. two lovers sat on the windowsill and gazed at the morning sun, finally making an appearance after such a long, gloomy weather. another sat on the bench by the tunnel entrance, legs crossed, and read a book.

  usual sight, but the flash of burgundy strands brought your eyes to him again, against your will. it was the same neighbor who slammed his shoulder against yours. your eyes dropped to his book—no title, no design. but two thick envelopes had nothing to do with the book itself, opened between the pages.

  when you walked past, it was like none of them even existed, the darkness of the tunnel swallowing you. instead, your eyes landed on your landlady skimming through her invoices in front of the mailboxes. she was wearing one of those long, flowery t-shirts that she always used as dresses, the ones that only managed to make her figure look like a ball ready to strike pins. she had curlers in her hair and a cigarette between her bright red lips. you could smell the blend of smoke and cat piss curling around her. 

  “Bonjour, Madame.” you nodded at her, keeping your voice as polite as necessary and a smile on your face. “Any mail for me today?” 

  for the past few days, you hadn’t received any, which you always thought was unusual. your pen pals had promised to write to you as soon as they received the letter from your first day here. it’s been four days.

  she sighed a sigh of old age as she turned on her short legs to face you. “Do I look like your fucking mailman?” her voice was deep and smoky from years of nicotine consumption, and her tone didn’t hold the friendliness one would expect.

  jeez, here goes your attempt to strike up a conversation. there was something wrong with her attitude when you first got here as well, but you always thought she just had a bad day. apparently, this was just who she was. you only continued to smile at her as you slid past her and to your mailbox, not up to argue with anybody. too early for that…

  the locks of the mailboxes were either present or they were not, no in between—actually, there was one mailbox with the lock leaning to the side somehow. nevertheless, they were old, rusty, and utterly useless, with the wood chipped and split. anybody could open them, go through the mail, and steal them if they wanted. the landlady didn’t care to solve the problem because, after all, who would want to steal someone else’s bills? but you, for instance, didn’t only have bills in there… 

  your lock had the misfortune of being nonexistent—or fortune. in this day and age, who wouldn’t want to be nonexistent? when you looked through the small, foggy glass, you saw nothing. you even opened it—ah, surprise, surprise. nothing.

  as you pondered over it, closing the mailbox before departing, you found your mind straying to the burgundy-haired boy and the envelopes he had. your footsteps quickened until the weak sunrays met your face again. on your right, you found the same bench he was sitting on… but it was empty. in his place, just a torn piece of the envelope lying on the pavement with your pen pal’s recognizable handwriting. 

  your eyelids lowered. the sunrays could no longer reflect in your eyes.

  11th of July, 2023 — Inside your building.

  would you report him, were it not such a minor crime? you bit your nail while you wondered. a parisian policeman would laugh at you if you told him someone has been stealing your letters for a week. he’d tell you he had better things to worry about. better crimes. in the eyes of the law, all crimes, petty or grave, were crimes, so why would one justify the laziness of one’s indifference based on how important it was?

  you didn’t possess a black-and-white morality. you didn’t care about rules; you didn’t care that not following them would only welcome disorder; you didn’t care that indifference towards small issues encourages bigger ones. you were just upset because your letters had been stolen and read by your own neighbor, and you couldn’t do anything about it.

  the landlady was too unbothered to fix the mailboxes. you have tried, and she only reproached you for your audacity to tell her how to do her job, even though you had used your nicest tone with her. you left before she could get to her second list of curses.

  the policemen weren’t an option because, in the white of the legal system, they were black spots.

  so now, you were sitting at the bottom of the u-shaped stairs on the second floor, waiting for the sound of his door opening.

  he was residing in 301, in the apartment right in front of yours. it had the same layout, though you’ve never been inside to know how the interior was embellished. and neither have you paid much attention to him to get an idea. what a neighbor you were…

  because of the loudness of your own thoughts, you didn’t realize you almost clipped your nail with your front teeth until the click of a latch bolt ricocheted off the walls. you practically jumped to your feet at the sound, beginning to climb up the stairs to meet him halfway through.

  you put on your best smile. you squinted your eyes. you appeared friendly and safe. 

  yet he still stopped in his tracks as if he were facing a wild animal.

  “Salut.” you didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

  you extended your hand and said your first name. you also told him you’re his new neighbor.

  he took stupidly too long to realize what you were doing, still staring at you with wide eyes, like a deer in the headlights. but then, when he finally took it, you felt the dampness of his nervousness smear on your dry palm. looks like he knew you were onto him.

  “Vivian. Enchanté.” 

  his voice was deep, not the deepest you’ve heard, but leaning towards it. but there was elegance, contradicting the sweaty hand, as if he were used to talking to people daily. you watched his face for any signs of shame, remorse, or embarrassment. by contrast, he seemed remarkably calm, devoid of any emotion. 

  those dark voids stared back at you, unshifting. he had long, butterfly-shaped eyelashes that looked like it would suck to have one stuck in your eye. maroon hair fell in waves on his head, messy yet still stylized, the fringe curled between his eyes. he was wearing a burgundy sweater to match the hair, the collar of the white shirt peeking underneath, and tucked into his brown, pocketless dress pants. he looked ready for a school meeting. or a really long, boring reading session on feminism. 

  you made your bullet points on his features subtle. then let go of his hand. you crossed your hands behind your back and wiped the sweat off your skin. he didn’t notice.

  “Forgive my discourtesy, but where are you rushing to so early in the morning?”

  he didn’t look disturbed by your lack of manners. he only submissively responded to your question: 

  “I merely intended to retrieve my mail.” 

  your hand wrapped around the railings when he answered, no interruption in the amicability of your face, but your grip tightened so hard, it felt like you wanted to beat him with it. “Your mail?” you laughed slightly. “I assume my mail as well?”

  the last part was a thought, even if the words were waiting on the tip of your tongue for you to open your mouth. though, this wasn’t a sign of retreat but suppression for a better, much more docile plan. 

  you looked him dead in the eye. “Well, could you retrieve my mail as well? I have suffered a trauma in my foot, and my doctor advised not to take too many walks.”

  “Of course,” he accepted, almost too mechanically. “There’s no reason to aggravate the injury over something I can accomplish in a minute.”

  you felt his cologne billow in your face as he walked past you. you stood in the same place, still looking at the spot where his face was, until the steps and the echo jumbled together. then, you moved, putting equal pressure on both feet with each step. 

  there was no pain to wince at because, truly, there was no injury. curiously, he didn't so much as ask what you had been doing before you started climbing the stairs back to your apartment. he only accepted your lie as it was, no questions asked.

  on the last step, you weren’t facing your apartment. instead, you watched the morning light glint on the “301”. you grabbed your shirt’s hem and wrapped it around the knob, twisting it until the door clicked open. 

  here, his cologne was more prominent. at first inspection, the apartment wore the same style as he did. dark red, velvet chairs circled the small, round coffee table, which held a stack of three books and a plant in the middle. underneath them, a persian rug with a similar color palette. the fireplace was empty and carefully cleaned, with a landscape painting framed in a golden surround above, a few candles, books, and a vase atop the surface. the bookshelves were a deep, rich wood that sat on either side of the fireplace, stacked from left to right with books. 

  to the left, the kitchen rested, dipped in dark red and black cabinets and mahogany counters. next to it was the hallway leading to the bathroom and bedroom, both of whose doors were closed. same layout as yours, totally different decoration.

  as you stepped deeper into the apartment, you stopped examining the aesthetic and started looking for your letters. you eyed every row of books, the study room by the window, every top shelf you had to jump as high as you could to see. but then, once you stepped on the kitchen tiles, you saw two opened envelopes after the fridge. the letters were still inside, undoubtedly read thoroughly. the missing rip of the envelope fit the torn part you found that day. 

  you grabbed them without a second thought.

  by the time he climbed to the third floor, you were waiting for him between each other’s doors. he saw your shoes first before his eyes slowly trailed over your body until they rested on your serene face. he held a short stack of envelopes and flyers, half of which he gave to you. 

  “Your foot appears better.”

  you looked through them—two letters were from your worried pen pals, an invitation to a new cafe, some political propaganda that you couldn’t care less about. you shoved them all in your pocket.

  “It’s a miracle!”

  13th of July, 2023 — Vivian’s apartment.

  “You have such an odd phrasing style.”

  the velvet armchair cushion sunk under your weight when you settled down. you basked in the smell of tea lingering in the air, watching from the corner of your eye as he worked in the kitchen. the apartment hadn’t changed much since you last came, but then again, you also haven’t given it much time to change since your last visit. 

  you invited yourself over. it had been a great surprise when you heard nothing about your retrieval mission from the man, something you suspected was because he couldn’t face you from the shame of being found out. you knew he knew, and he knew you knew that he knew. it was a never-ending cycle that just begged for another friendly encounter. 

  “J'y fais pas exprès. (I’m not doing it on purpose.)” 

  Vivian returned with a tray of teacups, a kettle, and a carafe with water. he moved the book stack and plant from the fireplace and replaced them with the tray. you picked your poison while your trained ears caught the Lyonnais dialect. the substitution of the standard French “Je ne le” to “J’y” that Lyonnais would always choose to do. as you brought the cup to your lips, you wondered why he would move from Lyon to Paris. but then he cut you off once he sat down:

  “It is inefficient to cushion or embellish every sentence. If I am direct with my speech, there’s less room for misunderstanding.” his eyes turned to you. “Do you find that bothersome?”

  you forgot about your previous question as you huffed out a laugh. 

  “Oh, no, don’t mistake my words. I’m not complaining.” the cup clinked against the saucer as you placed it down. you saw his eyes looking intently at you. “I think it’s unique.”

  the light from the chandelier made his gaze softer.

  you had to add, “As unique as autism could get.” 

  you plucked the light right out of his eyes with a cruelty that sought amusement. 

  and yet, you didn’t hear one objection from him. you’d be stupid to believe it was anything but encouragement. with your back leaning against the plush backrest, your right eyebrow twitched in feigned curiosity, “So, what’s your special interest?”

  Vivian sighed, grabbing the kettle and pouring himself some highly-deserved tea into his cup. he stopped just before the tea reached the thick, gold band on the outward layer. 

  “I have several,” he mumbled over the cup after bringing it close to his mouth. with one silent sip, he continued, “Football, behavioral patterns, probability, and destiny.”

  your ears strained with interest at the last word. 

  “Destiny?” your voice was filled with more amusement now. “What’s next, fairytales? Folklore?”

  “I’m serious. Big time,” he replied with another sip.

  you clicked your tongue, your mirth sliding right off it when he didn’t bite the hook of your challenge. “And, pray tell, why is a grown man so interested in destiny?”

  his expression never changed. 

  “Because I’ve never seen convincing evidence to prove otherwise. Every significant decision people claim as spontaneous can usually be traced back to traits they possessed long before they made it. We call it choice because we experience it…”

  his words turned into static. you watched his hands move around—a finger taps against his head, a twirl of his wrist, two fingers form a peace sign. 

  “... viewed from a distance, it looks remarkably like inevitability…” 

  you watched his mouth never slow down, not even for a breath. 

  “... no matter how many choices a person believes they are making, they’ll eventually arrive where their nature has been leading them…”

  “Was it also your destiny to steal my mail?” you finally snapped. you stared him dead in the eye, the same way you did back when you two were on the stairs—your first proper introduction. but there was no smile, no amicability to mask the pressure of your gaze, the sharpness of your words. your eyes demanded an answer immediately, no matter what it was. 

  Vivian’s head slowly turned to you. his face was still blank, devoid of the shame one would anticipate from a thief being caught red-handed. his dark, almond-shaped eyes were fixed on yours, and his cheeks lacked a touch of embarrassment. an eerie, agonizing silence had befallen the two of you.

  “No,” he answered, his eyes softening imperceptibly. “But you were.”

  a slight smile curled on his lips, as if he knew there was no way you could refuse him. “The envelopes only played their part to bring you to me.”

  your heart sank to your stomach.

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