Knock Knock…

Moving into that apartment felt like stepping right into my next chapter. For the first time, everything I wanted was suddenly within reach—campus parties during the week, apartment parties on the weekends, and a roommate who brought a constant buzz of energy into the place.

She was loud, fun, and incredibly social—the kind of roommate who always had people dropping by, which somehow made our small apartment feel bigger and more alive. Bit by bit, I found myself drifting away from the fraternity where I’d been a little sister. That season was fading out. I was settling into something new, whether I meant to or not.

Somewhere in the middle of all the late nights and questionable decisions, I took a job with a singing telegram company.

Yes—a singing telegram company.

The funny part? I couldn’t sing. Not even a little.

So they made me a manager. My job was to accompany the singers to their gigs—part moral support, part safety escort, part “just in case” backup. It was ridiculous and completely perfect for that point in my life.

Then came the night that would shift everything.

We were throwing one of our typical big parties—music pounding through the floor, people laughing so loudly the walls might’ve rattled. And then there was a sharp knock at the door.

Instant panic.

We were sure it was the police coming to shut us down.

But it wasn’t.

It was our neighbor.

And the moment I opened that door, everything else blurred out.

Tall. Dark. Drop-dead gorgeous.

One of those faces that makes you forget whatever you were just doing—or breathing.

I stood there like an idiot, staring, knowing deep down that something had just changed.

And the rest of that story… deserves its own entry.

To be continued.