Wanting to avoid someone means you often run into them.

Every morning, while I stretch outside of the apartment complex before I walk, Harper says hello while carrying a duffle bag and a camera around his neck. As polite as he is in the morning, he isn’t as considerate at night. He held a few more parties during the week, albeit not as loud, but I couldn’t leave my apartment without running into someone. Almost every one of them tried to convince me to stop by. (Note to self: add sociable people to the list next to attention-seekers for those who I need to avoid.)

Our other neighbors aren’t having as much of an issue. Harper’s apartment is at the end of the hall. My apartment is on the left. The stairs are to the right. There’s a decent amount of space between his apartment and the next neighbor, so I’m the only one being tormented by overly -friendly strangers and uncreative music.

After work, I reach my apartment building and do a quick glance around the lobby. No Harper in sight.

Rude neighbors are not a foreign concept to me. I’ve had plenty. I’ve gotten involved with them plenty. Enough to know that I’d rather not get involved again. Enough that I'm often tempted to be the rude neighbor, though I've found it doesn't work.

I’m just stepping onto the elevator when a group of giggling teenagers interrupt my thoughts.

The five of them jam into the elevator with me. Unfortunately, they don’t hit another button. Seems they’re going to the same floor as me. Of course.

“It’s totally here!” A girl with vibrant pink hair says cheerfully, even as she’s crushed between her friends. They’re leaning towards her to observe the phone in her grasp. “My cousin almost moved into this apartment complex. I saw some pictures and they are absolutely the same.”

“Are you sure it’s the eighth floor?” her friend asks.

“Yeah, look.” Pinky flips to a video where the audio is oddly familiar. I recognize the song, although I’d never listen to it of my own free will. “I zoomed in on this video. The apartment number is on the door here.”

The elevator doors open. The group scurries out. They stand cluelessly in the hall for a moment, searching. I brush past them, hurrying to my door when, suddenly, some of them scream.

“I was right!” Pinky bolts past me, followed by her friends. They skid to the end of the hall, squealing in front of Harper’s door.

Why the hell are a bunch of teenagers trying to find his apartment? With Pinky’s horrid style, maybe he’s a scam artist telling kids they look fabulous in that color.

“Excuse me!”

I flinch. An ominous presence lurks behind me.

“Hello?” Pinky calls again, poking her head towards me. “Hi! Do you know if Harper Holmes lives there?” She points at Harper’s door. I hesitate to unlock my own, because something tells me they’ll follow me inside to get answers.

“Never heard of him,” I lie.

The group stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Pinky places a hand over her heart as if she’s offended.

“You’ve never heard of HarpingHarper?!” Pinky asks. “He’s only, like, the nicest, funniest, and most amazing NuTuber ever! He has amazing unboxing and advice videos.”

In a few swift motions, Pinky has a video up on her phone and shows it to me.

“Him!” she declares when the video plays.

An opening screen pops up of a cartoon Harper holding a letter in his hand. He winks and waves the paper. The video zooms in when he opens the letter, and we transition to real life Harper on a bright blue couch. A few floating shelves holding likely faux plants rest behind him. He waves both hands, donning a brilliant smile.

“Hi friends!” Harper chirps. “Welcome back to my channel!”

The video continues but the words don’t reach my ears as I realize this punk is one of those—what were they called—social media gurus? No. Influencers! And now a group of his adoring fans are staring expectantly at me, hopeful they’ve found their obsession’s home base.

“You really don’t know him?” Pinky asks, pausing the video. My unimpressed expression must disappoint her. She huffs. “What a boomer. Do you live under a rock?”

“No, I obviously live in an apartment,” I state. She isn’t amused, pursing her lips and raising a badly drawn eyebrow.

“You live next to a celebrity,” she continues, ignoring my top tier comedy.

“You think I live next to what you presume to be a celebrity.”

She seems ten seconds away from kneeing me between the legs. I place my cane in front of me, just in case.

“He doesn’t realize how lucky he is,” one of Pinky’s friends says, accompanied by a drawn-out sigh. “I’d switch places with him in a heartbeat if it meant living next door to—”

“Harper!” Pinky screams, pointing excitedly at the end of the hall. All eyes, including my own, search for the man in question. Sure enough, Harper stands wide-eyed a few steps away. A couple bags of groceries hang off his shoulders.

“We were right!” A kid shouts.

Harper doesn’t so much as flinch. Bright-eyed, he greets them with a beaming smile and waving hands similar to the video.

“Hi friends,” he says, advancing towards us. His gaze drifts to me momentarily, then back to the screaming teenagers surrounding him like vultures over fresh road kill.

Someone grabs my wrist. I retreat in surprise, then groan. Pinky holds her phone out to me and demands, “Take some pictures for us, please!”

“Why should—” She doesn’t let me finish. Flipping over my hand, she places her phone in my palm. I stand there slack-jawed and annoyed, while Pinky rushes to Harper’s side. They’re speaking so quickly to him that he struggles to respond. Raising his gaze, he meets mine and smiles sheepishly, as if to apologize.

“Can we get a picture with you?!” Pinky asks Harper, already gesturing for me to do my damn job and take a picture.

That’s it. I’m looking for a new apartment this weekend!