The Window Where No One Waits Anymore
He didn’t sense it at first, but deep down, something felt off—like a room slightly tilted, a chair uneven, teetering on the edge of falling. Nothing obvious, just a faint crack in reality. He noticed it in spring—the window across the way. A tiny fifth-floor kitchen where the light flickered on just past eight. She’d step out barefoot, in an old jumper, cradling a mug like the ground beneath her was home. She’d curl up at the table, hugging her knees, lost in her laptop screen. Sometimes she’d laugh, head thrown back; other times, she’d wipe tears with her sleeve, never looking away, as if pain were as natural as breathing. There was no performance in her—just life. Quiet. Real.
She wasn’t beautiful by glossy magazine standards, but there was something magnetic about her. Something that made him wait for those evenings like waiting for the radio forecast—not for the weather, but for the voice. He lived alone. Two years since the divorce, and the silence had become almost physical—creeping into his bed, his tea, the keys under his fingers that no one else touched. Meals were takeaways. Conversations were texts without meetups. His mum called on Sundays and said, “You’re forty-three, love, you can’t go on like this.” He’d nod, smile into the phone, tap the screen just to end it.
In spring, she stared at her screen. In summer, she read. In autumn, she wrote. All at the same table, in the same jumper. And the cat—curled on the windowsill like part of the ritual, like the curtains, the mug, the soft glow. For nine months, she never once glanced his way. Not once. As if she knew he was watching but refused to acknowledge it. He waited. Every evening, hoping—maybe tonight she’d turn. Not to wave. Just to prove she saw him too.
Then, in January, the light never came on.
He waited. One night. Another. A week. Nothing. The curtains drawn. No cat. Gone, like a book left unfinished. He didn’t know what to do—had no right to care, and yet, he couldn’t let it go. On the thirteenth day, he crossed the courtyard. Climbed the stairs. Knocked.
A stranger answered. Young. Startled. Earbuds dangling.
“Sorry… did you—was there a woman living here? About thirty? Light hair, with a cat?”
“Oh—Lydia?” She tugged out an earbud. “She passed. Back in December. Illness. Hospitalized. Think someone took the cat. I’ve been here since.”
He thanked her. Walked away slowly, as if each step thickened the silence. The courtyard felt bare, the trees knowing too much. Back home, he sat on the windowsill. Only then did he realise his hands were shaking. Because there was nothing left to wait for.
Now, in the evenings, fairy lights glowed in that window. Warm. Cheerful. Shadows danced on the walls. A new woman, new mugs, a new life—guitar strums, laughter, an unfamiliar voice. And still, he caught himself hoping—maybe she’d appear. Sit down. Tuck her legs under her. Maybe, just once… look his way.
She never did.
Then, one spring evening, he switched on his desk lamp. Not because it was dark. Just in case—maybe someone was watching from the other side now. He sat. Book in hand. Mug steaming. Wearing an old jumper that smelled of time and quiet.
Just so there’d be light.
