The Window Where Nobody Waits Anymore
He didn’t notice it at first, but something inside whispered—this story was slightly askew. Like a room tilted just a fraction, a chair unbalanced, and any moment, you might sway. Nothing obvious, just a hairline crack in reality. He saw it in spring—through the window opposite. A tiny fifth-floor kitchen, where the light flicked on at eight sharp. She’d step out with a mug in hand, barefoot, in an oversized jumper, as if the chill didn’t touch her because the ground beneath was home. She’d perch at the table, hugging her knees, 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 as natural as breath. Her movements held no performance—only life. Quiet. Real.
She wasn’t beautiful by glossy standards, but there was something magnetic about her. Something that made him wait for those evenings. Like waiting for the shipping forecast—not for the news, but for the voice reading it. He lived alone. Two years since the divorce, and the silence in his flat had grown almost physical—it crept into his bed, his tea, the keys nobody but him tapped. Meals came as takeaways. Conversations were texts never leading to meetings. His mum called on Sundays, sighing, “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 it.
In spring, she watched her screen. In summer, she read. In autumn, she wrote. Always at that same table. In that same jumper. And the cat—curled on the windowsill like another ritual, like the curtains, the mug, the soft light. For nine months, she never once glanced toward his window. Not even a flicker. As if she knew he was watching. But she never acknowledged it. He waited. Every evening, hoping—maybe today she’d turn. Not to wave. Just to show she saw him too.
Then, in January, the light didn’t come on.
He waited. One night. Another. A week. Nothing. The 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. Crossed the courtyard. Climbed the stairs. Knocked.
A different woman answered. Young. Startled. With headphones dangling from one ear.
“Sorry… did a woman used to live here? Thirties… a cat… blonde?”
“Oh. Eleanor?” She tugged the headphone free. “She passed. Last month. Was ill. In hospital for a while. Think someone took the cat. I moved in December.”
He thanked her. Left. Slowly. As if each step thickened the silence around him. The courtyard felt bare, as if the trees knew. He went home. Sat on his windowsill. Only then did he notice—his hands were shaking. Because in that window, there was nothing left to wait for.
Now, in the evenings, fairy lights glowed there. Warm. Cheerful. Laughter danced across the walls. A different woman, different mugs, a different life. A guitar. Unfamiliar voices. And still, he caught himself waiting—maybe she’d reappear. Sit. Tuck her legs up. And maybe, just once… look his way.
She never did.
Then, come spring, he turned on his desk lamp for the first time. Not because it was dark. But because—maybe, just maybe—someone was watching from the other side. So he sat. With a book. With a mug. In an old jumper that smelled of time and quiet.
Just so there’d be a light.
