vật, bối cảnh và tiền tệ đều theo chuẩn Mỹ.
THE KNOCK AT MIDNIGHT
My husband had just left on a business trip.
It was the first time since we moved to this rental complex that Daniel would be away from home for so long. Normally, his work trips lasted only a day—he always came back late at night. But this time, a project in Seattle would keep him away for at least ten days.
I walked him to the door early that morning. Daniel pulled his suitcase behind him and reminded me of everything—lock the door carefully, turn on the balcony light at night, call security if anything felt wrong. He spoke seriously, as he always did, and didn’t forget to remind me to eat properly.
I nodded and smiled.
The door closed. The sound of the suitcase wheels faded down the hallway. I stood there for a few seconds before turning back inside.
The apartment suddenly felt strangely quiet—and far too spacious.
1. A NEW PLACE, A NEW LIFE
My name is Emily Watson, and I am twenty-nine years old.
Daniel and I have been married for two years. Our marriage isn’t dramatic, nor is it particularly romantic. There are no major storms, but also no grand gestures. Daniel is a practical man, an engineer working for a large construction corporation. His annual income is around $95,000, enough for us to live comfortably—nothing extravagant, but stable.
I work as an administrative assistant at an insurance company, earning about $3,500 a month. My life runs on routine: work in the morning, cook dinner in the evening, clean on weekends, watch movies together.
Five years ago—before we got married—we moved into this rental complex because the rent was reasonable and the security was excellent. It’s not luxurious, but it’s clean and quiet. Each building is only three stories high, with 24-hour security and cameras lining the hallways.
Most of the neighbors here are working professionals. People greet each other, help out with small things. I’m an easygoing person, so I quickly got to know a few people around.
One of them was Ryan Miller, the neighbor who lived right next door.
2. THE FRIENDLY NEIGHBOR
Ryan is about three years older than me.
He lives alone and works as a chef at an Italian restaurant downtown. He’s tall, with a strong build from long hours in the kitchen. His face is sharp, and his smile is warm and disarming. He speaks gently, politely—never overly familiar.
When we first moved in, Ryan helped me carry boxes, showed me where to take out the trash, where to park. Once, when my door lock jammed, he came over to fix it and refused to take any money.
Daniel knows Ryan. The two of them exchange polite greetings and occasionally talk about work. Daniel isn’t close to him, but he’s never shown any discomfort either. I thought it was simple: a kind neighbor, nothing more.
Until that night.
3. THE KNOCK AT MIDNIGHT
That evening, I went to bed earlier than usual.
Perhaps because I was so used to having Daniel beside me, sleeping alone made the apartment feel colder. I checked the front door twice, locked it carefully, pulled the curtains shut, then finally lay down.
Around 11:50 p.m., just as I was drifting off, I heard a knock on the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It wasn’t loud, but it was steady and urgent.
I jolted awake, my heart racing.
Who would knock at this hour?
I didn’t turn on the lights. I stood still and listened. The knocking continued, now accompanied by a man’s voice calling softly:
“Emily… Emily…”
A chill ran down my spine.
My mind raced through worst-case scenarios—thieves, drunks, someone knocking on the wrong door. I didn’t dare open it. I stayed a few steps back and called out:
“Who is it?”
A voice answered immediately:
“It’s Ryan. Your neighbor next door. Can you open the door for a moment?”
Hearing his name, I let out a breath—but unease lingered.
Why would he come looking for me in the middle of the night?
I glanced at the clock. 12:03 a.m.
After hesitating for a few seconds, I opened the door slightly, leaving the chain loose.
Ryan stood in the hallway, holding a paper bag. His expression was calm, familiar—the same gentle smile as always.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” he said quietly. “I just wanted to give you this and then I’ll go.”
He extended the bag toward me.
Inside was a container of hot chicken soup, steam still rising.
I stared at it, stunned.
“What… what is this?”
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost shy.
“I cooked it today and brought it to work. You haven’t looked very well lately, so I saved some for you. It’s still warm—good for you.”
I froze, unsure how to respond.
Midnight.
My husband had just left on a business trip.
My neighbor was standing at my door with homemade soup.
Nothing about this felt right.
Yet looking at the steaming container, at the sincerity in Ryan’s eyes, I didn’t know how to refuse.
“Oh… thank you,” I said, taking the soup.
Ryan nodded and stepped back.
“Eat it while it’s hot. Get some rest. Good night.”
He turned and walked away without lingering.
I closed the door and leaned against it for a long time, the warmth of the soup still in my hands.
Inside me stirred a feeling I couldn’t quite name.
4. THE NIGHTS THAT FOLLOWED
I told myself it was a one-time thing.
I was wrong.
The next night, exactly at midnight, the knocking came again.
It was Ryan.
This time, he brought homemade pasta. Another night, a chicken sandwich. Another, mushroom porridge.
Every time, he said gently:
“Try to eat well so you’ll be healthier… and more beautiful.”
I hated how that sentence made my heart skip, just slightly—dangerously.
What unsettled me most was this:
Ryan only knocked on my door at midnight on the nights Daniel was away.
When my husband was home, Ryan was perfectly normal—polite, distant, never mentioning the late-night visits, as if they had never happened.
And every time I accepted his food, I watched him walk away with a mix of guilt and confusion tightening in my chest.
5. A REFUSAL THAT FAILED
By the third time Daniel went on a business trip, I decided I had to stop this.
That night, when the knocking came, I didn’t open the door.
I spoke through it instead:
“Ryan, it’s late. I really can’t accept anything.”
Outside, he was silent for a few seconds—then knocked again.
“Just for a moment, Emily. I brought you some fruit. It’s nothing.”
“Thank you, but please go home,” I repeated.
The knocking didn’t stop.
I started to worry about disturbing the neighbors, about security getting involved. Finally, I opened the door, accepted the bag he pressed into my hands, my heart pounding.
Ryan looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were no longer as harmless as before.
“You don’t have to be so tense,” he said softly. “I just care about you.”
Then he turned and left.
I closed the door, my back damp with sweat.
6. THE SENTENCE THAT CHILLED ME
One night, as he handed me another container of food, I finally gathered the courage to ask:
“Ryan… why are you doing this? Do you… have feelings for me?”
Ryan looked at me and smiled faintly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But if one day you get divorced… I’ll be the first to pursue you.”
I went completely still.
That sentence didn’t cut my skin—it pierced straight through the calm I had tried so hard to maintain.
I couldn’t answer. I just stood there and watched him walk away in silence.
7. A DANGEROUS COMPARISON
I hate myself for admitting this, but I couldn’t deny it:
Ryan was thoughtful.
He remembered that I was allergic to seafood.
That I liked mildly spicy food.
That I couldn’t drink coffee after 6 p.m.
The things he brought were simple, inexpensive—but always exactly what I liked.
Daniel, on the other hand, was a responsible husband—but emotionally reserved. He rarely asked how I was feeling. He loved me in a practical way: paying the rent on time, setting aside $1,200 in savings every month, planning for our future.
But tenderness didn’t come easily to him.
And the most frightening truth of all was this:
Every time Daniel left on a business trip, I found myself waiting for the knock at midnight.
8. THE INNER STRUGGLE
I knew I was standing dangerously close to a line I should never cross.
I am a married woman.
And Ryan—I don’t even know if his feelings are real, or if he simply enjoys the idea of caring for a lonely woman next door.
I’m afraid that one day, I won’t be strong enough to refuse.
I’m afraid of destroying the marriage I’ve worked so hard to protect.
But I’m also afraid… that if the knocking stops one day, the silence will feel unbearable.
That night, lying alone in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I asked myself the same question over and over:
What should I do now?
