The Window across the street

Eliza had never believed in fate. Not really.

But something about that apartment on Pine Avenue had felt like a whisper from the universe — the kind that wasn’t loud, but couldn’t be ignored either. She’d found it during the lowest season of her life, in the middle of October rain and a silence that had stretched too long since her father’s death.

The apartment was small, the walls yellowing, and the radiator moaned like it was mourning something. But the rent was cheap, and the view—well, the view gave her reason to stay.

Across the street, third window from the left, lived a dancer.

The first time she saw him, it was a Sunday morning. She was curled on the floor beside her half-unpacked suitcase, sipping coffee that tasted like burnt regret, when movement caught her eye. There he was — tall, barefoot, in a white linen shirt that floated as he spun. His living room had high ceilings and wooden floors, and his hands moved like music. She couldn’t hear the tune, but she could feel it, like a heartbeat on the wind.

He danced with abandon. Like he didn’t care if anyone watched. Or maybe… like he hoped someone did.

Eliza started setting alarms for Sunday mornings.

She didn’t know his name. Didn’t know his story. But she began building quiet rituals around him. She’d sit by the window with her sketchpad and capture his silhouette in charcoal. She’d imagine him as a fallen prince, a weary soldier, a man trying to outrun ghosts.

Sometimes, another figure would appear — a woman with jet-black curls and laughter in her body. They’d dance together, forehead to forehead, fingers interlaced. Eliza’s chest would tighten, and she’d close the curtain just a bit. But the next Sunday, she was there again, loyal as a heartbeat.

She never told anyone. It wasn’t about romance. It wasn’t about obsession.

It was about survival.

The dancer gave her something solid when everything else felt like water. Her life was a watercolor bleeding at the edges — waitressing at night, painting for commission by day, and swallowing grief in quiet spoonfuls.

Then came the winter.

The woman stopped appearing. The dancer moved slower, sometimes sitting for long stretches, head in hands. Eliza wanted to scream across the street, "Don’t stop dancing." But she didn’t. She just watched.

And then… the curtains closed.

Not just for the night. But for days.

Then weeks.

At first, she thought he’d gone on vacation. Maybe to somewhere warm. Maybe to someone new.

But by the second Sunday, her stomach twisted in dread. By the fourth, she couldn’t sleep. Her heart pounded against her ribs like fists on a locked door.

On the fifth Sunday, Eliza did something she never thought she would.

She crossed the street.

The building was cleaner than hers. The lobby had plants that didn’t look fake. She hesitated, but the doorman, an older man with tired eyes, simply nodded and held the door open.

“6B,” she said, unsure why she was whispering.

He nodded again.

The elevator creaked like an old confession. She stepped out on the sixth floor, heart thundering.

Apartment 6B.

She raised her hand and knocked.

No answer.

Again.

Still nothing.

But then—something caught her eye. A piece of paper, taped to the door. Written in black ink, the letters small, the pen trembling:

To whoever used to watch me dance —

Thank you. For the invisible company. For making me feel seen when I thought I was disappearing. I hope you find your own music again. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.

— J.

Eliza pressed her forehead to the door. A single tear slid down her cheek.

She never knew his name. Never heard his voice. But he had saved her.

And somehow, she’d mattered too.

She went home.

She opened every window. Cleared the living room floor. Put on a record her father used to love.

And then, Eliza danced.

Not like the dancer. Not with grace. But with truth.

With trembling hands and barefoot spins, she danced for lost things. For letters never sent. For grief swallowed and beauty witnessed in silence.

And maybe, across the city — somewhere — someone saw her.

And maybe, they smiled.