The Noisy Neighbour Who Stole My Heart
Spring, March, London. I was living in a university dormitory near King’s Cross, and the day had been brutal. A dreaded exam loomed the next morning, and all I wanted was a few hours of sleep. But the bloke next door—yes, the one who later became my husband—had other plans. His music was so loud the walls vibrated.
At first, I hoped it’d be short-lived. An hour passed. Then two. By eleven, the volume only climbed. My patience wore thinner than a Poundland t-shirt. Finally, I mustered the courage to march over and knock.
No answer—just a shout from inside: “Who’s there? What d’you want?”
Through gritted teeth, I politely asked him to turn it down. Silence. A minute later, the music died. Mission accomplished, I thought. Oh, how wrong I was.
A week later, the same nonsense. But this time, he actually opened the door. There he stood: tousled brown hair, bright blue eyes, and the distinct aroma of cheap cider. Rude? Check. Defensive? Absolutely. He acted like I’d barged in at 3 a.m., even though it was barely ten. We exchanged sharp words, he mumbled a promise to keep quiet, and—shockingly—he did.
Then came the Facebook message. Of course it was him. In my naivety, I’d posted my room number in the dorm group chat. Rookie mistake.
The messages started stiff but quickly veered into flirtation. I dismissed it—assumed he was bored, tipsy, or both. Frankly, I wasn’t keen. Drunk blokes? Hard pass. But something kept me from blocking him.
After Easter break, I returned to find dozens of notes plastered on my door. Declarations of love, sleepless nights, even terrible poetry. Romantic? More like relentless. I ignored every scrap—no replies, no glances, nothing.
Months passed. June arrived, exams were over, and summer beckoned. As I strolled toward the dorm, someone called my name. I turned—there he was, breathless.
“Sorry,” he blurted. “For the music. The notes. Being a knob. I just…”
We stood at the entrance. He held the door, eyes darting like a nervous puppy. In the lift, he hit the emergency stop.
I froze. “What are you *doing*?”
“Just—wait,” he said softly. “I need to say this.”
He stepped closer. I retreated until the wall stopped me. Gently, he tilted my chin up. “Why do you run? Why won’t you give me a chance?”
I meant to scoff, to leave. But his gaze was disarming. Then—he kissed me. I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t. Call it magic, madness, or momentary insanity, but everything shifted.
He invited me to his room. Candles, dim lighting, wine glasses—the full cliché.
“I don’t drink,” I said.
“Tonight’s different,” he grinned.
We talked. Properly. For the first time, I saw past the loud neighbour act—he was witty, tender, surprisingly sweet. Later, he led me to the rooftop. Under the stars, he pointed out constellations, calling me his “shooting star.” I laughed, half-disbelieving, until dawn crept in. He draped his jacket over me when I dozed off, whispering, “I’m not letting you go.”
Six years on, I’m married to that noisy nuisance—the one who crashed into my life with terrible playlists, worse poetry, and a stalled lift. Now, we’re expecting our first child. And to think it all started with a furious knock and a plea to *turn it down*.
Love’s a funny thing. Sometimes it’s not in grand gestures but in misplaced playlists and terrible timing. You just have to listen—to your heart, and the racket next door.
