He didn’t notice it right away, but somewhere deep down, he knew—something was off. Like a room slightly tilted, a chair uneven, the feeling you might lose your balance any second. Nothing obvious, just a faint crack in reality. He noticed it in spring—in the window across the way. A tiny kitchen on the fifth floor, where the light flicked on at eight sharp. She’d step out barefoot, holding a mug, wearing an oversized jumper like the cold didn’t touch her because the ground beneath her feet was home. She’d sit at the table, hugging her knees, staring at her laptop screen for ages. Sometimes she’d laugh, tossing her head back; other times, she’d wipe tears with her sleeve without looking away, as if she’d grown used to pain the way you get used to breathing. There was no performance in her movements—just life. Quiet, real.
She wasn’t beautiful by magazine standards, but there was something about her—magnetic. The kind of thing that made him wait for those evenings like waiting for the radio weather report, not for the forecast but just to hear the voice behind it. He lived alone. Two years since the divorce, and the silence in his flat had become almost physical—it crept into his bed, his tea, the keys no one else ever tapped. Meals were takeaway. Conversations were texts, never meet-ups. His mum called on Sundays, saying, *”You’re forty-three, love, you can’t go on like this.”* He’d nod, smile into the phone, and tap the screen just to end the call.
In spring, she watched the screen. In summer, she read. Autumn, she wrote. Always at that same table. Always in that jumper. And her cat—curled on the windowsill like another ritual, like the curtains, the mug, the warm glow. For nine months, she never once glanced his way. Not a single look. As if she *knew* he was watching but refused to acknowledge it. He waited. Every evening, hoping *maybe this time she’ll turn*. Not to say hello. Just to show she saw him too.
Then, in January, the light never came on.
He waited. One night. Another. A week. Nothing. Curtains drawn. No cat. Gone, 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 went over. Crossed the courtyard. Climbed the stairs. Knocked.
A different woman opened the door. Younger. Surprised. Earbuds dangling.
“Sorry—did a woman live here? Thirties-ish, blonde, had a cat—”
“Oh—Emma?” She pulled out an earbud. “Yeah. She passed. December. Was ill, in hospital for a while. Think someone took the cat. I’ve been here since Christmas.”
He thanked her. Left. Slowly. As if the silence grew thicker with every step. The courtyard felt bare, like the trees knew. Back home, he sat on his windowsill. Only then did he realise—his hands were shaking. Because there was nothing left to wait for in that window.
Now, come evening, fairy lights glowed there instead. Warm. Cheerful. Light danced on the walls. A different woman, different mugs, a different life. Guitar. Laughter. A voice he didn’t recognise. And still, he’d catch himself hoping—maybe she’d appear. Sit down. Tuck her legs under her. And maybe, just once… look back.
She never did.
Come spring, he turned on his desk lamp for the first time. Not because it was dark. Just because—maybe someone was watching from the other side now. So he sat. With a book. A mug. In that old jumper that smelled of time and silence.
Just so there’d be light.
