The envelope isn't mine. I notice it wedged between my gas bill and a grocery store flyer, the address label clearly marked for Dylan Hargrave, 4B — my upstairs neighbor. I've lived in this building for three years and I've maybe spoken to him twice. Once when he held the lobby door. Once when his package got left at my door by mistake. I should walk it upstairs. Knock on 4B. Hand it over with an apologetic smile. Instead, I'm standing in my kitchen with the envelope already open in my hands. I don't know why I opened it. Maybe because it was thin and unsealed, the flap barely tucked in. Maybe because some part of me wanted to know what kind of mail a man like Dylan Hargrave receives — the neighbor who never makes noise, never has visitors, never does anything but nod politely in the hallway with those pale gray eyes that always seem to be looking past me. The photograph slides out onto my counter. It's me. Asleep in my bed, tangled in my white sheets, my hair spread across the pillow. The angle is from the foot of the bed, maybe six feet away. Close enough to see the curve of my shoulder, the way my hand rests near my face. I took no photos like this. I live alone. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't even have a roommate. The handwriting on the back is neat, deliberate: *You look peaceful when you dream about him.* My hands are steady as I set the photo down. My brain is working through logistics. The lock on my door. The windows. Whether I've been walking around in a towel, in my underwear, in nothing at all. Someone was in my apartment two nights ago. I know it was two nights ago because I'm wearing the gray tank top I only wear when everything else is in the laundry, and I did laundry yesterday morning. I don't grab my phone. I don't call the police. I walk upstairs and knock on 4B. Dylan opens the door on the second knock. He's wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, barefoot, his dark hair slightly damp like he just showered. He looks at me with no surprise, no question, like he's been expecting me. "You opened it," he says. Not a question. "You need to tell me what this is." I hold up the photograph. He steps back from the doorway. "Come inside."