He didn’t notice right away, but something in his gut told him—this wasn’t quite right. Like a room slightly tilted, a chair uneven, the feeling you might lose your balance any second. Nothing obvious, just a hairline crack in reality. He caught it that spring—across the way, in the window. A tiny fifth-floor kitchen where the light flicked on at eight sharp. She’d step out in bare feet, a loose jumper, cradling a mug like the cold didn’t touch her, like the ground beneath her was home. She’d curl into a chair, knees hugged to her chest, and stare at her laptop screen for ages. Sometimes she’d laugh, head thrown back; other times, she’d wipe tears with her sleeve without looking away, like pain was as natural as breathing. No performance—just life. Quiet and real.
She wasn’t glamorous by magazine standards, but there was something magnetic about her. Something that made him wait for those evenings like some wait for the weather report—not for the forecast, just to hear the voice. He lived alone. Two years since the divorce, and the silence had grown almost physical—creeping into bed, his tea, the keys no one but him touched. Takeaways for meals, texts instead of meetups. His mum called on Sundays and sighed, *”You’re forty-three, love, you can’t go on like this.”* He’d nod, grin into the phone, and tap the screen, just to hurry it along.
In spring, she watched the screen. Summer, she read. Autumn, she wrote. Always at that same table, same jumper, same cat curled on the sill like part of the ritual—the mug, the soft glow, the curtains. Nine months, and not once did she glance his way. Not a single look. Like she *knew* he was watching but refused to acknowledge it. Still, he waited. Every evening, hoping—maybe tonight, she’d turn. Not to say hello. Just to say, *I see you too.*
Then, in January, the light stayed off.
He waited. One night. Another. A week. Nothing. Curtains drawn, cat gone. Vanished, like a book snapped shut mid-sentence. He didn’t know what to do—had no right, but couldn’t just accept it. On the thirteenth day, he crossed the courtyard, climbed the stairs, knocked.
A different woman answered. Young. Startled. Earphones dangling.
*”Sorry… did a woman used to live here? Thirties, blonde, had a cat—”*
*”Oh—Imogen?”* She tugged out an earpod. *”Gone. Last December. Got poorly, was in hospital. Think someone took the cat. I’ve been here since.”*
He thanked her, left slowly, each step thickening the quiet. The courtyard felt stripped bare, like the trees knew. Back home, he sat on the sill and only then noticed—his hands were shaking. Because that window had nothing left to wait for.
Now, come evening, fairy lights glowed there instead. Warm. Cheerful. Laughter and guitar chords bouncing off the walls. A new woman, new mugs, new life. But he still caught himself waiting—maybe she’d reappear. Sit. Pull her knees up. Maybe, just once… look over.
She never did.
Come spring, he turned on his desk lamp for the first time. Not because it was dark. Just in case someone, somewhere, was watching back. He sat. With a book. A mug. An old jumper that smelled of silence and years.
Just to keep a light on.
