The Window Where No One Waits Anymore
I didn’t notice something was wrong at first, but somewhere inside, I felt it—something was off. Like a room slightly tilted, a chair uneven, as if I might sway any moment. Nothing obvious, just a faint crack in reality. I saw it in spring—in the window across the way. A small fifth-floor kitchen, where the light flicked on at eight sharp. She’d walk in, barefoot, in a loose jumper, cradling a mug like the floor beneath her was home. She’d sit at the table, knees hugged to her chest, staring at her laptop screen for hours. Sometimes she’d laugh, head thrown back, other times she’d wipe tears with her sleeve—never looking away, as if pain were just another breath. No pretence in her movements, just life. Quiet, real.
She wasn’t beautiful by glossy standards, but there was something in her—something impossible to name, yet impossible to ignore. Something that made me wait for those evenings. Like waiting for the weather report—not for the news, just for the voice. I lived alone. Two years since the divorce, and the silence in the flat had a weight now—it slipped into the bed, the tea, the keyboard no one touched but me. Food was takeaway. Company—just words on a screen, never faces. Mum rang on Sundays and said, “You’re forty-three, love, you can’t go on like this.” I’d nod, smile into the phone, tap the screen, just to end the call.
In spring, she stared at the screen. In summer, she read. In autumn, she wrote. Always at that table. Always in that jumper. And the cat—curled on the windowsill like another fixture, like the curtains, the mug, the soft glow. For nine months, she never once looked my way. Not a glance. As if she knew I watched. But she never acknowledged it. I waited. Every evening, hoping—just once—she’d turn. Not to say hello. Just to say: I see you too.
Then, in January, the light didn’t come on.
I waited. One evening. Another. A week. Nothing. Curtains drawn. No cat. As if someone had torn a book in half mid-sentence. I didn’t know what to do. I had no right—but I couldn’t just accept it. On the thirteenth day, I went. Crossed the courtyard. Climbed the stairs. Knocked.
A different woman answered. Young. Surprised. Headphones dangling.
“Sorry… a woman used to live here… about thirty… with a cat… blonde…”
“Oh. Emma?” She pulled off a headphone. “She passed. Last December. Was ill. In hospital, at the end. Think someone took the cat. I’ve been here since.”
I thanked her. Left. Slowly. As if each step made the silence thicker. The courtyard felt bare, like the trees knew. I went back. Sat on the windowsill. Only then did I realise—my hands were shaking. Because there was nothing left to wait for in that window.
Now, in the evenings, fairy lights glowed there instead. Warm. Cheerful. Light danced on the walls. A different woman, different mugs, a different life. Guitar. Laughter. Unfamiliar voices. I still waited—just in case she’d appear. Sit down. Pull her knees up. Maybe, just once… look over.
She never did.
And then, in spring, I turned on my desk lamp for the first time. Not because it was dark. Just because—maybe someone was watching from the other side now. So I sat. With a book. With a mug. In an old jumper, smelling of time and silence.
Just to keep the light on.
