Page 47 of Rizzed Up By My Alien Neighbor
VANESSA
I’m bone-tired tonight, more exhausted than I’ve felt since Sammy was born. The world’s noise—evictions, spreadsheets, text notifications, the ding of the Ever-Expanding Stress Meter™—is louder than ever. I’ve fallen asleep standing, balancing bills on the nightstand, and woke up on fire knowing it has to repeat again.
But there’s a fresh envelope on the porch. No stamp, no return address—just a single lily in full bloom, dewdrops still clinging to its petals, nestled atop a neatly folded note. The flower looks wild, perfect—like it’s been harvested from some impossible place.
I cradle it in my palm, inhale the scent—honeyed and green, not the heady, sickly sweetness of florist blooms. It’s different. It’s almost…unearthly.
I unfold the note—simple, typed:
“The light you are is a lantern in human night.”
It’s unfamiliar, but when I read it again, something flutters in my chest—an echo of longing, a silent comfort. A gift, cloaked in poetry.
He’s listening. He’s paying attention.
I look toward his house—door closed, lights off. No sign of mechanical humming or alien ritual. Just a silent curtain. A single dark window.
I cup the lily and breathe deep. I want to say thank you. I want to say,Who are you?
Instead, I whisper to myself, “That’s… beautiful.”
Inside, I set the vase on the kitchen table beside Sammy’s homework. The contrast is incongruous—a perfect lily, boxes of crayons, unpaid rent notice flashing “due.” But somehow, telling someone you matter feels more important than anything else on the table.
At dinner, I slide extra pasta onto Sammy’s plate and tell her about the flower. Her eyes grow wide, mouth halves between delight and suspicion.
“Vanessa, did you read it?”
“I did.”
“Alien poetry?”
I laugh, despite twisting inside. “Let’s call it… individual expression.”
She snorts. “Well, that’s undeniable.”
She studies me, then whispers, “Promise me you’ll talk to him soon.”
I hesitate. “Maybe.”
She purses her lips. “Don’t chicken out, Mom.”
I swallow hard, glancing at the lily. I nod.
The next morning, I wake before my alarm. I linger in the doorway to Sammy’s room and watch her inhale and exhale, oblivious, her chest heaving with innocence. I feel like I’m letting her down every time I don’t confront Lipnicky or Richard—or myself.
Still, I push forward with the day. I manage work—barely. Meetings blur together. My eyes burn. I can taste the exhaustion on my tongue like burnt coffee grounds.
At lunch, I step into the front yard with too-big shoes and the lily vase, breathing deeply. The breeze carries sweet grass and that barely-there perfume that seems to follow me.
I approach the fence between our houses. I stand there, vase clutched to my chest, and wait. My hands tremble.
I look up. His curtains twitch—just slightly—and then... a shadow moves inside. I'm sure.
My heart pounds.
“Good morning,” I say softly, voice wavering.
He steps outside, dressed in the crisp button-down and jeans, hands empty.
