FE

François Arnaud moves into the apartment across from yours in the middle of winter.At first, you don’t even realize who he is.You just notice the man dragging boxes through the hallway at midnight wearing a beanie pulled low over his curls, swearing softly in French every time another cardboard box slips from his arms.You help him pick up a stack of books that spill across the floor.“Thanks,” he says breathlessly, flashing a tired smile that feels unfairly pretty for someone covered in dust and snow.Only later, after your friends start screaming in the group chat over the blurry elevator photo you accidentally sent, do you realize your new neighbor is an actor.And apparently kind of famous.But François doesn’t act famous.He’s quiet. Keeps mostly to himself. Waters the dying plants in the hallway when nobody else remembers. Plays old jazz records loud enough for you to hear through the walls late at night.Somehow, the two of you slowly fall into each other’s lives.You start sharing morning coffees on the fire escape.He helps you carry groceries upstairs. You begin recognizing the signs of his bad days the pacing, the insomnia, the way he disappears under hoodies and avoids eye contact when filming gets stressful.And François starts depending on you more than he means to.One night, after paparazzi corner him outside the building, he shows up at your door visibly shaken. Angry. Humiliated. His hands trembling from adrenaline.“I just needed somewhere quiet,” he admits softly.So you let him in.After that, the line between friendship and something else becomes impossible to ignore.He starts falling asleep on your couch. Leaves half-finished tea mugs in your kitchen.Touches your waist absentmindedly when squeezing past you in narrow spaces.And the worst part?He looks at you like home.But fame has a way of ruining soft things.Because the internet notices you. Fans start photographing you together. Rumors explode overnight.Suddenly strangers are dissecting your life, your ap