The Window Where No One Waits Anymore
I didn’t sense it straight away, but something inside whispered that this story was ever so slightly off. Like a room where the floor slants just a fraction, or a chair wobbles imperceptibly beneath you. Nothing obvious—just a hairline crack in reality. I noticed it in spring—in the window across from mine. A small kitchen on the fourth floor, where the light flicked on at half seven every evening. She’d step out with a mug in hand, barefoot, in an oversized jumper, as though the chill didn’t touch her. She’d curl up at the table, hugging her knees, staring at her laptop screen for hours. Sometimes she’d laugh, head tipped back; other times, she’d wipe her sleeve across her cheeks without looking away—like she’d grown used to sorrow as much as breathing. There was no pretence in her movements—just life. Quiet, unvarnished.
She wasn’t beautiful by magazine standards, but there was something about her—something that made me wait for those evenings. Like waiting for the radio forecast, not for the weather, but for the voice behind it. I lived alone. Two years after the divorce, the silence in the flat had taken on weight—it crept into my bed, my tea, the keyboard no one else tapped. Meals were takeaway. Conversations were texts without meet-ups. Mum called on Sundays and said, “You’re forty-three, love. You can’t carry on like this.” I’d nod, smile into the phone, and tap the screen just to end the call.
In spring, she watched her screen. In summer, she read. By autumn, she wrote. Always at that same table. In that same jumper. And her cat—bundled on the windowsill like another fixture, another ritual, like the curtains or the mug or the soft yellow light. For nine months, she never once glanced toward my window. Not a single look. As if she knew I was watching—but never acknowledged it. I waited. Every evening, hoping—maybe tonight, she’d turn. Not to wave. Just to say, without words, *I see you too*.
Then, in January, the light didn’t come on.
I waited. One night. Another. A week. Nothing. The curtains stayed drawn. The cat was gone. It all vanished, like a book snapped shut mid-sentence. I didn’t know what to do. Had no right—but couldn’t just let it go. On the thirteenth day, I crossed the courtyard. Climbed the stairs. Knocked.
A different woman answered. Younger. Surprised. Earphones dangling.
“Sorry… did a woman live here? Early thirties? Blonde, had a cat—”
“Oh, Lucy?” She tugged an earphone free. “She passed. Last month. She was ill—in hospital for a while. Think someone took the cat. I’ve been here since December.”
I thanked her. Left. Walked slowly, like each step thickened the silence. The courtyard felt hollow, as if the trees knew. Back home, I sat on the windowsill. Only then did I notice my hands shaking. Because there was nothing left to wait for in that window.
Now, fairy lights glow there in the evenings. Warm. Cheerful. Laughter bounces off the walls. A different woman, different mugs, a different life. A guitar. Chat. Unfamiliar voices. And still, I catch myself waiting—maybe she’ll appear. Sit down. Pull her knees up. Maybe, just once… she’ll look over.
She never did.
But this spring, I switched on my desk lamp for the first time. Not because it was dark. Just because—well, maybe someone’s watching from the other side now. So I sat. With a book. A cuppa. In an old jumper that smells of time and quiet.
Just to keep a light on.
