When I was around 15, my family planned a summer vacation — nothing too fancy, just a trip to visit relatives for a week. For some reason I can’t even remember now, I stayed behind. Maybe it was a sports thing or just not wanting to miss time with friends. Either way, I was home alone for a few days, which honestly felt like freedom at the time.
We lived in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where everyone knows everyone, or at least pretends to. One of our neighbors, a woman in her early 60s, had always seemed… off. Not in a dangerous way — at least not outwardly — but more in the sense that she had this intense energy, like she was always on the edge of saying something weird. She was the kind of neighbor who’d talk your ear off if you made the mistake of saying “hi” too enthusiastically.
Anyway, a day or two into my solo week, she rang our doorbell. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I hesitated before opening the door, and there she was — full smile, perfume cloud, and all. She told me she noticed I was alone, and said she thought it would be nice to “take me out for dinner.” Her exact words were something like, “You must be starving with no one here to cook for you. Let me treat you.”
Even at 15, I could tell something was… weird. The tone, the body language — it wasn’t neighborly concern. It felt personal, too familiar. I smiled politely and told her I was fine, that I’d just made myself a sandwich and had some leftovers. I tried to shut it down gently, without being rude. She stood there for a second longer than was comfortable, almost like she expected me to change my mind. But eventually, she nodded and left.
I didn’t think much of it afterward. Weird, yes. Uncomfortable? Definitely. But I figured that was the end of it.
When my family came back a few days later, my mom sat me down with this look like she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be concerned. Apparently, the neighbor had stopped her outside and told her — completely unprovoked — that I was “madly in love” with her. She said it with confidence too, like it was some known truth. My mom was speechless. I was mortified.
From then on, the neighbor would wave at me just a little too long when I passed by, and she’d give these sly smiles that made my skin crawl. I avoided her at all costs, ducking into the house when I saw her outside. It was like living next to someone who had created this weird fantasy version of reality, and I just happened to be an unwilling character in it.
Over time, the story — at least according to what she’d tell others — grew legs. I’d hear from other neighbors that she claimed I was “shy but obsessed,” that I “watched her from the window,” or even that I wrote her a note — which definitely never happened. It became this bizarre urban legend in our little street.
To this day, I cringe when I see her. I’m an adult now, and thankfully I don’t live in that house anymore, but when I visit my parents and she’s outside, I feel 15 all over again. And the worst part? She still sometimes brings it up like it was this beautiful, tragic almost-love story — completely one-sided and completely made up.
