Chapter Two - Hannah
CHAPTER TWO
Hannah
Valentine's decorations had already begun appearing around the building. A string of pink hearts cheerfully framed the entrance to the library nook on one side of the lobby, and Hannah could hear Ray in the community room, likely attaching more there. Once she put away her supplies, she'd come back to give him a hand.
Her arms ached under the weight of three bags of teaching supplies when Mrs. Peterson shuffled into the lobby, struggling with her walker and a sagging bag of recycling.
"Let me help you with that," Hannah said, somehow managing to balance her classroom materials while taking the recycling bag.
"Dear, you're already carrying too much—"
"It's no trouble." Hannah guided Mrs. Peterson toward the recycling room, trying not to think about the stack of papers she still needed to grade or the dripping faucet in her apartment. She wanted to try to fix it herself, and save Ray the bother.
The lobby doors whooshed open, and like always, James Park stole every ounce of her attention.
She tried to focus on Mrs. Peterson's recycling, on her teaching supplies, on anything except how his suit was the exact shade of charcoal that made the rich brown of his eyes seem even warmer, drawing out depths she tried not to get lost in. But it was useless.
She noticed everything about James Park, each detail catalogued against her will: how his tie was slightly looser than usual (early meeting?), how his hair was slightly mussed (had he been running frustrated fingers through it?), how he moved with that purposeful grace that made her—
Stop it , she told herself firmly. Her eyes tracked him anyway.
His phone was in his hand, but she'd seen him hold the door for elderly residents before even while checking emails. She always noticed James Park doing nice things. Like last week, when he'd steadied Mr. Thompson after a dizzy spell, his hand gentle on the old man's elbow despite being clearly rushed.
"Hi, James," she managed, but he was already crossing to the elevators, fingers flying across his screen. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, making her glad she was holding onto Mrs. Peterson's walker for support.
"Hannah?" Mrs. Chen's voice broke through her daze. "Those bags look heavy. Let me take one—"
"Oh no, I'm fine." Hannah quickly retrieved her teaching supplies, nearly dropping one bag in the process. "But could you help Mrs. Peterson with the recycling room door?"
"Always helping others," Mrs. Chen said with a knowing look. "But who helps you?"
Hannah was saved from answering by Mr. Rodriguez calling from the mailroom. "Hannah! Could you read me this letter? I forgot my glasses upstairs."
The elevator dinged and James stepped inside. He really was unfairly handsome, all sharp jawline and broad shoulders. Last month, she'd seen him coming back from a run. She felt herself flush just remembering it.
"Hannah?" Mr. Rodriguez was still waiting.
"Coming!" She hurried to help him.
"You work too hard," Mrs. Chen called after her. "Need to take care of yourself too."
But Hannah was already focused on deciphering Mr. Rodriguez's letter.
She definitely didn't think about how James's suit jacket pulled slightly across his shoulders, or how he got his coffee from the fancy chain nearby.
These little details she collected about James Park were just... professional interest. Community awareness. Nothing more.
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"He doesn't even know you exist," Sophie said, pointing her fork at Hannah with the precision of a prosecutor delivering closing arguments. They sat at a corner table at The Daily Grind, where the late afternoon lunch crowd had thinned enough that Hannah couldn't use people-watching as an excuse to avoid this conversation.
"That's not true," Hannah protested, pushing a cherry tomato around her half-eaten salad. "He says good morning sometimes."
"Grunting while collecting his mail doesn't count as saying good morning." Sophie reached across the table and stabbed Hannah's wandering tomato with her fork. "And don't think I haven't noticed you wore that green sweater twice last week. The one you usually save for parent-teacher conferences."
Hannah felt her cheeks warm. "There's just something about him. It's the way he moves, like he's completely sure of himself. Or the way his voice gets deeper when he's focused on something. The way his shirts fit across his shoulders..."
"Oh honey." Sophie's voice softened. "You've got it bad."
Hannah sighed and stuck a forkful of salad into her mouth before she could say anything even more embarrassing.
Sophie looked at her. "I've watched you do this before. Remember Ethan from your yoga class?"
"That was different."
"The one you went to for six months even though you hate yoga? The one who was wearing a ring the entire time?"
"I didn't notice the ring at first," Hannah mumbled, though they both knew she had. She'd just convinced herself it meant something else—a family heirloom, maybe, or a commitment to... self-marriage? Even in her head, the excuses sounded ridiculous now.
Sophie leaned back, her dark curls catching the afternoon sunlight streaming through the café window. "And Joe?"
"He was separated!"
"From his boyfriend."
Hannah winced. That one had been particularly embarrassing. "Okay, fine. Maybe I have a small tendency to..."
"Fall for completely unavailable men who barely acknowledge your existence?"
"I was going to say 'see potential where there isn't any.'"
Sophie's expression softened. "Look, you're my best friend. I love that you see the good in everyone. But James Park? He's not just oblivious—he's dating someone. Someone he parades through your building like they're auditioning for a reality show about aspirational power couples."
"They're not that bad," Hannah said, but even she couldn't keep a straight face. Just last week, she'd overheard Vanessa planning their couple's photoshoot for Instagram.
"Okay, maybe they are that bad. But haven't you noticed how he always holds the door for Mrs. Peterson when she's coming back with her groceries? Or how he—"
"Nope," Sophie cut her off. "We're not doing the 'secret heart of gold' list. Next you'll be telling me he rescues puppies in his spare time."
Hannah took a sip of her iced tea. "I know it's stupid. I know he's with someone else. I just... sometimes I catch him doing these small, kind things that nobody else notices, and I can't help wondering if maybe there's more to him than everyone sees."
"Oh, honey." Sophie reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "The problem isn't that no one else notices these things. The problem is that you spend so much time looking for hidden depths in unavailable men that you miss the available ones right in front of you. When was the last time you went on an actual date?"
Hannah opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
"That's what I thought." Sophie signaled the waiter for their check. "Promise me something?"
"If it's about joining your kickboxing class again, the answer is still no."
"No, although that instructor still uses you as a cautionary tale." Sophie grinned. "Promise me you'll stop loitering in the lobby every morning just to get a glimpse of James Park. You're not the building superintendent, and he's not going to suddenly notice you because you keep the lobby plants dust-free."
Hannah felt her face flush again. "I like dusting the plants. It's... peaceful."
"Then tidy your own apartment. Or better yet, come to kickboxing. Much better way to start the day than pining over someone else's boyfriend."
Hannah sighed, knowing Sophie was right but not quite ready to admit it. "I'll think about it."
"The kickboxing or the pining?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." Hannah gathered her things, already mentally calculating how many hours until tomorrow morning's lobby crossing. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Anytime." Sophie stood and pulled her into a quick hug. "Just remember—you deserve someone who actually sees you, not someone you have to make up stories about."
"I know," Hannah said, and she did know. She just wished knowing made it easier to stop hoping.
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Hannah was almost at the door to her studio apartment when she heard the rustle of paper bags and a quiet "Aiyah" from around the corner. She found Mrs. Chen in the hallway, surrounded by scattered groceries, a jar of honey slowly rolling toward the elevator.
"Mrs. Chen!" Hannah hurried to catch the jar. "Let me help you with those."
"Hannah dear." Mrs. Chen's face creased into a smile that made her eyes disappear. "These old hands aren't as reliable as they used to be."
Together they gathered the spilled items—bok choy, oranges, a package of dried mushrooms. Hannah noticed the grocery bags were from the expensive market six blocks away.
"You shouldn't have walked so far for groceries," Hannah said, following Mrs. Chen into her apartment. "I could have picked these up for you."
"Walking is good for old bones." Mrs. Chen moved through her kitchen with the grace of someone who'd occupied the same space for decades. "And how else would I see what happens in the neighborhood? Like that new couple moving in on the third floor. Or young Mr. Park rushing out this morning, checking his phone like it holds all life's answers."
Hannah felt the warmth that crept up her neck at the mere mention of his name.
She'd also noticed him rushing out this morning. She'd seen him check his phone with a slight furrow between his brows. Not that she'd memorized his expressions. Not that she kept track of what each tiny gesture meant, collecting them like secrets she had no right to know.
Mrs. Chen filled her kettle with practiced movements. "Sit, sit." She gestured to one of the kitchen chairs, the kettle already starting to whisper on the stove.
Hannah settled into the chair, surrounded by the familiar scents of jasmine tea and subtle incense. The kitchen was small but immaculate, decorated with photographs of what must have been three or four generations of Mrs. Chen's family.
"He seems very focused," Hannah offered carefully. "On his career, I mean."
"Focused, yes. Like looking through a telescope—seeing very far, but only in one direction." Mrs. Chen poured tea into delicate cups that Hannah knew were only used for guests. "Work is good, my mother would say, but a life needs balance. Like a good cup of tea needs both bitter and sweet."
Hannah wrapped her hands around the warm cup, watching the leaves unfurl.
"He holds doors for people sometimes," Hannah found herself saying, then blushed at how quickly she'd jumped to defend him.
Mrs. Chen's knowing smile made Hannah's blush deepen. "Ah, you notice such things? Good eyes, like your good heart. But be careful, dear one. Some people are like my tea—they need time to show their true flavor. And some..." She gestured to the honey jar Hannah had rescued. "Some need more than sweetness to change their nature."
A question formed in Hannah's mind, but before she could voice it, Mrs. Chen stood and began packing leftovers into a container.
"Drop this soup off to Mr. Thompson across the hall. I can tell his arthritis is bothering him today. And Hannah?" She paused, fixing Hannah with a gentle but knowing look. "Perhaps tomorrow morning you could find a better reason to be in the lobby than dusting the plants, yes?"
Hannah accepted the container of soup, her cheeks burning. "The plants really do get dusty," she mumbled.
"So do dreams, dear. So do dreams." Mrs. Chen patted her arm. "Now go, before the soup gets cold."
Hannah left with the soup and a strange feeling that Mrs. Chen had seen right through her.
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Hannah was locking her mailbox when she heard the familiar click of expensive shoes against marble. Her heart did that silly little skip it always did, the one she'd been trying to train it out of for months now.
The reflection in the brass showed James Park striding through the lobby, his charcoal suit impeccably tailored, his dark hair perfectly styled. Today he'd gone with the blue tie—the one that made his eyes shine in the morning light.
Not that she'd memorized his entire rotation of ties like some kind of unhinged stalker. Absolutely not.
"Morning," Hannah murmured, more out of habit than expectation. As usual, James was too focused on his phone to look up, his fingers flying across the screen as he pushed through the revolving door. She knew the exact moment he'd hit send on his email because his shoulders always relaxed slightly, like he was already conquering the day before it began.
Then he disappeared into the rush of downtown traffic, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive and subtle that she definitely hadn't looked up online after catching a whiff in the elevator last month.
Mr Rodriguez from 3B shuffled past, collecting his morning paper. "I hope you're not dusting that plant, mija ," he said, patting Hannah's arm. "The super doesn't pay you to keep this place spotless."
"I'm not—" Hannah started to explain, then smiled instead. How could she explain that these quiet moments before work, tidying spaces that would be messy again by noon, made her feel like she belonged somewhere? That in a building full of important people rushing to important places, these small acts of service gave her purpose?
She checked her watch—time to head to her actual job. Her third-graders wouldn't care if her shoes cost a month's rent or if her bag was last season's clearance find. They only cared that Ms. Miller listened when they talked about their weekend adventures and helped them sound out difficult words.
On the street, Hannah caught her reflection in the building's window. Brown hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail, minimal makeup, practical clothes that would survive art projects and playground duty.
She'd worn her nicest blouse today but James hadn't noticed. He never did. Just like he never noticed how she always pressed the 'door open' button when she saw him rushing for the elevator, or how she'd memorized which morning papers went to which residents so she could hand him his Wall Street Journal on the rare days their paths crossed at the mailboxes.
Nothing like Vanessa, James's girlfriend, who floated through the lobby in designer dresses and four-inch heels, her laugh like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Hannah had overheard enough of their conversations to know Vanessa worked in PR, that she only drank oat milk lattes, and that she thought James worked too much.
Each detail felt like a stolen secret, something she had no right to know but couldn't help collecting.
Hannah waited for a couple of tourists to take a photo, careful not to ruin their shot, before continuing her walk to school. Another morning of watching life happen around her, of being the reliable background character in other people's stories. She was good at it—being dependable, responsible, invisible.