The Window Where No One Waits Anymore
He didn’t sense it at first, but somewhere deep inside, something felt off. As if the room were slightly askew, the chair uneven, and he might tip over at any moment. Nothing obvious—just a faint crack in reality. He noticed it in spring—in the window across the way. A tiny fifth-floor kitchen where the light flicked on precisely at eight. She would step out with a mug in hand, barefoot, in a loose jumper, as if the cold didn’t touch her because the ground beneath her feet was home. She’d settle at the table, wrap her arms around her knees, and stare at her laptop screen for hours. Sometimes she’d laugh, throwing her head back; other times, she’d wipe tears with her sleeve—never looking away, as if pain were as familiar as breathing. There was no performance in her movements—just life. Quiet, real.
She wasn’t beautiful by glossy magazine standards, but there was something undeniably magnetic about her. Something that made him wait for those evenings the way one waits for the weather forecast—not for the information, but just to hear the voice. He lived alone. Two years had passed since the divorce, and the silence in his flat had grown almost tangible—it crept into his bed, his tea, the keyboard no one else touched. Meals were takeaway. Conversations existed only in texts. His mum called on Sundays and said, “You’re forty-three now, love. You can’t go on like this.” He’d nod, smile into the phone, and tap at the screen just to end the call.
In spring, she stared at her screen. In summer, she read. In autumn, she wrote. Always at the same table. In the same jumper. And a cat—curled on the windowsill like another part of the ritual, like the curtains, the mug, the soft light. For nine months, she never once glanced toward his window. Not a single look. As if she knew he was watching—but never gave a sign. He waited. Every evening, hoping—maybe she’d turn. Not to say hello. Just to show she noticed too.
Then, in January, the light never came on.
He waited. One night. Another. A week. Nothing. The curtains stayed shut. The cat was gone. It all vanished, like a book torn in half 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. Headphones dangling from one ear.
“Sorry… did a woman live here? About thirty… with a cat… blonde hair?”
“Oh. Emma?” She pulled off her headphone. “She passed. In December. She was ill. In hospital for a while. Think someone took the cat. I’ve been here since December.”
He thanked her. Left. Slowly. With every step, the silence seemed to thicken. The courtyard felt barren, as if the trees knew. He went back. 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, in the evenings, fairy lights glowed there. Warm. Cheerful. Shadows danced on the walls. A different woman, different mugs, a different life. A guitar. Laughter. An unfamiliar voice. And still, he waited—just in case she might reappear. Sit down. Pull her knees up. And maybe, just once… look his way.
She never did.
That spring, he turned on his desk lamp for the first time. Just because. Not for light. But because—maybe someone was watching from the other side now. And he sat. With a book. With a mug. In an old jumper that smelled of time and silence.
Just to keep a light on.
