Mira

The breeze touched her face like a soft hand. Leila opened her eyes. The table fan circled beside her, humming.

A Knock.

She jerked upright on the couch, heart racing. The delivery bag sat outside her door. She brought it in, ate standing at the counter, threw the container away.

When she first arrived a few years ago, the idea of living alone thrilled her. A place of her own. Freedom. After the pandemic, her company went remote. At first, she loved it—chores between meetings, naps in the afternoon, her favorite TV shows always available.

Now, the TV stayed on for hours. Laptop to TV screen to phone to sleep. The silence had become too loud and sitting with her thoughts felt dangerous. She’d built a world where human interaction happened through a computer screen, and the cocoon felt safe.

Her evenings: grocery shopping, errands, screen. Some part of her still longed for connection. But inertia was stronger. She pressed the power button on the remote and sank deeper into the cushions.

One neighbor she often saw in the parking lot was Mira—striking, hard to ignore. They had seen each other enough to say hello.

“Hi, how are you?”, Mira called out.

Leila had just parked. “I’m okay. You?”

“Good! Waiting for my husband. We’re going to a concert.” Mira bounced on her toes, grinning.

Something pinched in Leila’s stomach. “Which apartment are you in?”

“Right across from you. I know—everyone’s so busy, we barely know each other.” Mira shrugged. “We should hang out soon. You, me, my husband. See you around!” She winked, pointing at Leila.

Leila waved and turned toward the stairs. When she glanced back, Mira was checking her phone, impatient but radiant.

There was something about her that made Leila ache. She wanted to say more, to accept the invitation. But the thought arrived fully formed: You don’t need that trouble. You’re fine alone. She believed it.

A man left the apartment across from hers. Mira’s husband, probably. She’d seen him before but never connected the dots. He rushed past, and she didn’t try to say hello.

Winter arrived with rain. Leila drove home from the grocery store, wipers struggling against the downpour. As she unpacked groceries, through her living room window—ceiling to floor glass overlooking the parking lot—she spotted Mira again, wearing a stunning dress, standing by her car.

Leila remembered wearing a dress like that once. Graduation. The memory surfaced before she could stop it. Don’t think about that. You have better things to do, said the voice and she snapped out of it.

Mira would get soaked. Leila grabbed her umbrella and went downstairs.

“What are you doing out here?” she called over the wind.

Mira looked up, rain streaming down her face. “Waiting for my husband. It’s our anniversary and we’re supposed to go out. He’s still working. I got angry and left—I wasn’t thinking.”

“Your dress is beautiful. Come on, let me take you back inside. I’ll keep you company while he finishes work.”

Mira beamed. “Really? Thank you.”

They walked together, the umbrella barely covering them both. At the apartment door, inertia hit Leila like a wall. Every instinct screamed to turn back.

“Come on in,” Mira said, smiling.

Leila stepped inside. Mira closed the door, folded the umbrella, set it by the entrance.

The apartment was dim—blinds shut tight, no outside light. Leftover pizza sat on the kitchen counter. Unfolded blankets covered the couch. Two snake plants sat in a corner, looking healthy.

“I’m going to change and save this dress,” Mira said. “Make yourself comfortable. Drinks in the fridge.” Leila perched on the edge of the couch and waited.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

Then footsteps—not Mira’s delicate steps, but a heavier, slapping sound on the wooden floor.

A man appeared. Mid-thirties, tall, confused, holding a coffee mug.

“Who are you? How did you get in?”

Leila’s throat tightened. “Your wife let me in. Mira. She’s changing.”

He stared. “Who is Mira? I don’t know any Mira. I live alone. Sometimes I forget to lock the door, but—is there something I can do for you?”

“She just went inside. She was right here.”

“There’s nobody else here.” His voice was careful now, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“There has to be—she was soaking wet, in a red dress—”

“There’s no dress. What are you talking about? You can take a look yourself.”

Leila glanced down. The umbrella was in her hand. It had been there the entire time.

The room spun. Her vision blurred.

“Are you alright?” The man’s voice came from far away.

She couldn’t stand. Couldn’t see. Her eyes closed.

She woke in her own bed.

The tiny lamp. The green chair. The pot of flowers.

Through the window, morning light entered the room.

She drank water, checked the clock. Saturday. Weekend.

In the kitchen, she made tea. Through the window, she saw Mira in the parking lot, dressed in yellow, waving up at her.

Mira gestured for her to come down. Leila hesitated, then went.

“Such a nice day,” Mira said cheerfully.

“You were in my dream last night. It was strange—”

“Oh wow! Tell me more.”

Leila started to explain, but Mira interrupted. “Hey! Look behind you.”

Leila turned.

The man from her dream stood there.

Her heart doubled its pace. Her palms went slick.

“Hey, I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I wasn’t very welcoming. I’m Mike. Your neighbor. I made sure you got home okay.”

Her body froze.

“Are you okay? Should I take you to urgent care?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Okay, nice to meet you properly.” He extended his hand.

Leila’s mind felt like tangled wire. She looked for Mira.

Gone.

She excused herself and ran back inside. Through the window, she watched Mira walk away from the parking lot, toward the naked trees lining the road. Mira looked back once, made eye contact, winked, and waved goodbye.

Then vanished into the trees.

Days passed. Peak winter. No more Mira.

Leila sat on her couch, preparing for a work event. Everyone had to bring an old photo and share something funny. Her TV hummed in the background.

She opened the box of photographs reluctantly, flipping through them without interest. Then her hand stopped.

Her graduation photo.

She barely recognized herself—standing next to her friends, winking and pointing at the camera. That red dress she’d forgotten she owned.For a second, she thought she saw Mira. But it was just her.

Something cracked open inside her. The voice in her head told her to close the box, to keep it together.

She couldn’t.

She sat on the wooden floor and sobbed until her eyes burned.

A few days passed, a dinner invitation from Mike appeared on her phone. Her finger hovered over Decline. She clicked Accept.