The Girl Next Door

The summer before college was supposed to be about preparation. SAT prep, packing, getting ready to leave the only town I'd ever known. Instead, it became about Hannah Kim—the girl who'd lived next door my entire life but who I'd never really seen until that June.

My name is Tyler Reed. I was eighteen, just graduated from high school, and until that summer, I'd never had a serious girlfriend. Not for lack of trying—I'd asked out plenty of girls over the years—but nothing ever seemed to click. I was the "nice guy friend," the one everyone came to for advice about their crushes but never crushed on themselves.

Hannah changed all of that.

I'd known Hannah since we were kids. She was the quiet girl who read on her porch swing while I played basketball in my driveway. We'd trick-or-treated together as children, waved at each other in the hallways at school, shared the occasional polite conversation at neighborhood barbecues. But we'd never really talked—not until she showed up at my window one night in early June.

I was lying in bed, half-asleep, when I heard tapping on the glass. When I pulled back the curtain, there was Hannah on the sloped roof outside my window, wearing pajamas and a grin I'd never seen before.

"Let me in. My parents are fighting again and I can't sleep."

I opened the window, still confused. "You climbed up here?"

"It's not that hard. I've been doing it since we were twelve." At my expression, she laughed. "Don't worry, I never came in. I just sit on your roof sometimes when things get bad. It's peaceful."

I didn't know what to say to that. Hannah's home life was something I'd only glimpsed from the outside—raised voices drifting across the lawn, tension at family gatherings. I'd never realized how much she'd been escaping to my roof all these years.

"You're welcome to stay. If you want."

She climbed through the window, and that was the beginning of everything.

That first night, we just talked. Sat on my bed with the lights low, sharing secrets we'd never shared with anyone. She told me about her parents' crumbling marriage, about feeling invisible in her own home. I told her about my anxiety, the pressure I felt to have my life figured out, the fear that college would swallow me whole.

When she finally climbed back out the window at 3 AM, I felt like I'd made a new friend. Someone who actually understood me. Someone I could be real with.

She came back the next night. And the next. By the end of the first week, it had become our ritual—after everyone else was asleep, Hannah would appear at my window, and we'd spend hours in my room, talking and laughing and learning each other.

I don't know exactly when I started falling for her. Maybe it was the night she cried on my shoulder about her parents. Maybe it was when she convinced me to dance with her to a song playing softly on my phone, both of us barefoot on my bedroom floor. Maybe it was simply the accumulation of every moment, every secret shared, every comfortable silence.

One night, three weeks into our ritual, she looked at me differently.

"Tyler? Have you ever kissed anyone?"

"A few times. Nothing serious. You?"

"Once. At a party sophomore year. It was terrible." She paused. "Do you want to try? With me?"

My heart stopped. Restarted. Stopped again.

"Yes."

She leaned in, and I met her halfway, and the kiss was nothing like the awkward fumbling I'd experienced before. It was soft and sweet and somehow exactly right, like something I'd been waiting for without knowing it.

When we pulled apart, she was smiling.

"That was nice."

"Yeah. It really was."

After that, kissing became part of our nightly routine.

The summer deepened, and so did our relationship. We were dating now—officially, though we kept it quiet to avoid neighborhood gossip. During the day, we'd hang out at the pool or the park, acting like the old friends we'd always been. But at night, in my room, we were something more.

The kissing evolved gradually. Hands that stayed firmly in place started to wander. Conversations that had been all words became something else entirely—gasps and sighs and whispered names in the dark. We were learning each other, step by cautious step.

One night in late July, with August looming and college getting closer, Hannah asked the question I'd been too scared to ask myself.

"What happens when you leave?"

"I don't know. I don't want to think about it."

"We should, though. Because if this is just a summer thing, I need to know. I need to start... preparing. Protecting myself."

"Is that what you want? For this to just be summer?"

"No." She was curled against me, her head on my chest. "I want this to be everything. But I'm scared. We're going to be so far apart. And what if you meet someone else, someone cooler or prettier or—"

"Hannah." I tilted her chin up so she was looking at me. "There's no one cooler or prettier. There's no one else, period. I don't know how we'll make it work, but I want to try. I want you. Not just for summer. For real."

She kissed me—deeply, desperately, with an intensity we hadn't reached before. And when she pulled back, her eyes were shining.

"I want to be with you. Really be with you. Tonight, if... if you want that too."

I understood what she was asking. My heart raced, but I nodded.

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

Neither of us really knew what we were doing. We'd talked about it—she'd read articles, I'd done my own research—but nothing quite prepared us for the reality of two nervous teenagers figuring things out together.

We went slow. Really slow. Every step was a question—is this okay? How does that feel? Should I stop?—and every answer was honest. When something worked, we did more of it. When something didn't, we adjusted. It was awkward and clumsy and perfect because it was ours.

The actual moment was nothing like the movies. There was fumbling with protection, pausing to adjust positions, a few moments of discomfort that made her wince and made me freeze until she told me to keep going. But there was also tenderness, and trust, and the overwhelming feeling of being exactly where we were supposed to be.

Afterward, we lay together in my narrow bed, both of us slightly stunned by what we'd just shared.

"That was..."

"Yeah."

"I thought it would feel different. More... I don't know. Dramatic."

"Me too. Instead it just feels like... us. But more."

She laughed, and I laughed, and we kissed again, and then did it again because we could, because we wanted to, because the night was still young and we had so much more to learn.

⏳ After That Summer

I left for college in mid-August. Hannah still had a year of high school left. We stood in my driveway the night before I left, both of us trying not to cry.

"Promise you'll call every day."

"I promise."

"And video chat on weekends."

"Every weekend."

"And you'll come home for every break, even the short ones."

"Even the short ones." I pulled her close. "I love you, Hannah. That's not going to change just because there are miles between us."

We made it work. It wasn't easy—long-distance never is—but we had something worth fighting for. All those nights in my room, all those secrets shared, had built a foundation strong enough to survive separation.

Hannah joined me at the same university the following year. We got an apartment together sophomore year. Now we're both graduated, both working, both living a life we started building that summer before college.

Sometimes I think about the coincidence of it—that the girl next door, the one I'd overlooked for eighteen years, turned out to be the love of my life. But maybe it wasn't coincidence. Maybe we just needed the right moment, the right circumstances, the right summer to finally see each other clearly.

She still climbs through windows sometimes, even though we share a bedroom now. Old habits, she says. And every time she does, I remember that first night—tapping glass, pajamas, a grin I'd never seen before.

The beginning of everything.