The next day, around lunchtime, he returned to the building full of borrowed outrage and a sense of injured righteousness. He was sure he was in the right. Sure he would go in there, lay down the law, and make her understand just how unacceptable her behavior had been.
In his mind, he had already rehearsed the speech. He would explain that she had crossed a line by putting her hands on an older woman. He would demand an apology to his mother. He might even insist she say it face-to-face.
He reached the familiar door and inserted his key automatically, the way he had done hundreds of times before.
But the key only went in halfway.
He frowned, pulled it out, turned it, and tried again.
Same result.
A cold, unpleasant feeling started low in his stomach.
He tried a third time, harder now, forcing the key with all the strength he had. But it wouldn’t turn. The tip was hitting something solid on the other side.
Her key.
“Alina, open the door,” he shouted, louder and more shrill than he intended. “Come on, enough already. We need to talk about what happened yesterday like adults.”
The hallway answered with silence.
Not just quiet. The kind of silence that feels deliberate.
And still, he knew she was inside. He could feel it. He pictured her at the computer in noise-canceling headphones, hearing every word and choosing not to respond.
That thought made him furious. He started pounding on the metal door with the side of his fist. At first he held back, mindful of the neighbors. Then he stopped caring and hit it harder and harder until his knuckles stung.
“Have you completely lost your mind? Open this door!” he yelled. “This is my home too. You can’t just lock me out!”
His blows echoed up the stairwell.
