him.

“That’s how apartment buildings work,” he added.

Then he smiled.

Not kindly.

“You should be glad it’s only tea.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying. Could be worse.”

And then he closed the door.

I stood in the hallway for almost a minute.

That was the moment I finally understood him.

He had decided I was harmless.

The polite older woman downstairs.

The neighbor who never caused trouble.

The one who would keep asking nicely until she finally gave up.

And, more importantly, I realized he wanted me angry.

He wanted me pounding on his door.

Raising my voice.

Giving him a story he could later tell about the unstable woman downstairs who lost her mind over tea bags.

So I didn’t.

I returned to my apartment.

Made myself tea—which felt appropriate—and sat at my kitchen table.

I decided to give him one final morning.

If nothing came over the balcony,