**Diary Entry: The One Who Watches Through the Window**
Every evening at precisely eight o’clock, Oliver turned off the kitchen light and sat by the window. This ritual was his salvation, the fragile thread he clung to, keeping himself from falling apart. It was the final punctuation mark on his day—a quiet moment where he didn’t have to speak, explain, or even think. He could just be.
Across the street, on the seventh floor of the old block of flats on Cherry Lane, a dim yellow bulb flickered to life. It hesitated at first, wavering as if uncertain—*Should I turn on? Will it disturb anyone? Is it too bright for such darkness?* Oliver knew that flicker by heart now. It was a silent signal that something was about to happen. Not loudly, not for everyone. Only for those who knew how to wait.
Then she would appear. A slender woman, often wrapped in a scarf she constantly adjusted or removed. Sometimes she held a teacup, sometimes a book. Other times, her face carried the weight of exhaustion—as though her day had stretched far beyond 24 hours. She sat by the window without looking directly at him, yet somehow, their gazes met—in the evening, in the reflection, in the quiet. In his mind, he called her *the woman in the window*. No name. No words. Just light and shadow.
They weren’t acquainted. He didn’t know her name or the sound of her voice. But each appearance felt like a silent confession: *You’re alive. So am I.* Night after night, Oliver postponed everything until eight. After that, only the window mattered. Everything else faded into meaninglessness, leaving only this fragile moment to remind him he still existed. He began to live at eight in the evening—for as long as her silhouette lingered in that amber glow.
Two years ago, Oliver lost his wife. Swiftly, brutally, without mercy. There hadn’t even been time to be afraid—just a diagnosis, chemotherapy, oxygen, then silence. Death hadn’t arrived dramatically; it simply flicked the switch, like turning off a hallway light. He remained. Alone. Not a widower—just a shadow. At first, he drank. Not to forget, but because he didn’t know how else to fill the emptiness. Then, he just went quiet. Not out of bitterness, but because inside… there was nothing.
He counted the dripping tap. The creak of the lift. The silence on the phone. He worked remotely—mechanically, without soul. Friends vanished—some by choice, others because he pushed them away. Life became a hollow vacuum. Until last spring, when *she* appeared.
At first, he only noticed a silhouette. Then—a face. A quiet gaze, neither curious nor intrusive. Just *looking*. Neutral. Gentle. Demanding nothing.
One evening, he was late. Returning from the chemist past his usual time, he found the light already on. She sat there—no book, no teacup. Just her eyes and a tense stillness, as though waiting. Or remembering. He stepped toward the window, hesitant, heart stumbling. Lifted a hand—softly, almost imperceptibly. No expectations. She didn’t react, but she didn’t turn away. She *stayed*. And that was enough to make something inside him tremble.
The next night, she wasn’t there. The lamp burned, but the window was empty. Only her cat remained—hunched, tail curled around its paws, staring straight down. Straight at him. As if it knew. As if to say, *Wait.*
Oliver paced. His heart raced—not with fear, but with something long forgotten. Worry. Care. He even stepped outside, circled the building, stood beneath her flat, craned his neck—same window. Same quiet. He couldn’t bring himself to ring the bell. Their silent agreement was to exist side by side, never crossing the line.
Two days later, she returned. Moving slowly, as if through fog. A bandage wrapped around her wrist. Her movements were careful, but her gaze—unchanged. Only deeper. More steady. He raised his hand again, slightly uncertain. And she… lifted hers in reply. A tired, tender gesture. A silent *I’m here. I see you.*
The next morning, he found a note slipped under his door—no envelope, just a sheet folded in half, creased at the edges as if held too long in trembling hands. The handwriting was soft, rounded:
*”Thank you for watching. I watch too. It matters.”*
He read those words over and over. Like a spell. Proof that silence could speak. That being seen—without names, without sound—was enough to stitch the fractures in a life.
That evening, he sat by the window. The light came on. She appeared. And suddenly, there was no loneliness. No alienation. Just her. And him. Two silhouettes in separate windows. Two lives no longer echoing into nothingness.
Sometimes, survival doesn’t need grand declarations. It doesn’t need promises. Only this—someone, even across a street, noticing you exist. Being seen. Whispering, without a sound, *I’m here.* And receiving in return—not a voice, but a light.
A light that flickers on every evening in the window across the way.
