When it opened, I was face-to-face with the culprits—my neighbors, a seemingly shy couple in their late 20s. Their cheeks turned bright red as they realized why I was standing there.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep my composure, “but it sounds like you’re auditioning for an Olympic event in there. Could you maybe… tone it down a notch?”
The woman stammered, “We really thought we were being quieter this time.”
“Well, unless your definition of ‘quiet’ involves rattling the walls and making my dog howl, we might need to revisit that plan,” I replied, half-joking.
The man scratched his head awkwardly. “Uh… we’ll invest in a sound machine and, uh, maybe some rugs?”
“That would be a start,” I said. “And maybe skip leg day for a bit.”
They nodded sheepishly, and I went back to my apartment, hoping the message finally stuck. The next night? Silence. Sweet, glorious silence.
Or so I thought—until 2 a.m., when their new “sound machine” kicked in. Turns out, it was karaoke.
