A good neighbor knows when not to wave.
They nod from across the street, maybe lift a hand if the mood strikes, but mostly—they stay put. They don’t wander over with gossip wrapped in small talk or ask what that noise was last night. They know everyone’s got ghosts, and some of us like to drink coffee with ours in peace.
A good neighbor minds their lawn, their lights, and their damn business. They understand proximity isn’t friendship—it’s geography. The best ones don’t pretend otherwise. They’re the kind who’ll pull your trash bin up to the curb when you forget, but never ask why you forgot in the first place.
But here’s the part no one admits: good neighbors save us, quietly.
They remind us we’re not alone even when we choose to be. The sound of their footsteps, the faint hum of their television through the wall—it’s proof of life, the fragile kind that keeps you tethered when the world starts feeling too wide. We may never speak beyond a passing hello, but that’s not indifference. It’s understanding.
The secret isn’t in being close—it’s in being considerate. It’s in knowing that kindness sometimes looks like silence. And if you’re lucky, it’s in the neighbor who nods at you through the blinds, both of you quietly agreeing that the best relationships are the ones that never need explaining.
Memoirs of Madness 