The Apartment Across the Street

The city never really slept. Even at midnight, cars hummed below, neon signs blinked above, and windows glowed like small constellations. From her apartment on the fifth floor, Claire often watched the world through her balcony window. She told herself it helped her think, but deep down, she knew she was waiting for something she could not name.

Across the street was another building, older and quieter. One night, as Claire watered her small balcony plants, she noticed a man standing by the window opposite hers. He was holding a guitar, his eyes closed, strumming softly. The music was faint, carried by the wind. It was not perfect, but it was beautiful.

She listened until he stopped. He looked up and saw her. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then he smiled, raised his hand in a small wave, and disappeared behind the curtain. Claire smiled back, though he could not see it.

Days passed. Sometimes he played in the evenings, and sometimes he sat at the window reading. Once, he placed a mug on the windowsill with steam curling up into the cold air. She found herself timing her coffee breaks to match his. It was silly, she thought, but it made the nights feel less empty.

One evening, she decided to wave first. He laughed and waved back. The next day, there was a sticky note taped to his window that read: Good evening, neighbor. Claire laughed and wrote her reply on a piece of paper: Nice music. She taped it to her window. It became their way of talking.

Each night, a new message appeared. They wrote about small things at first. The weather. The traffic. The noisy cat downstairs. Then, little by little, the messages grew deeper. He wrote about how he was trying to write songs again after losing his job at a bar. She told him she was an editor, always fixing other people’s words but never brave enough to write her own.

One day, his note said: If I play at the cafe across the street this Friday, will you come?

Claire hesitated. She had not gone out much in months. But something about the note made her heart race. She wrote back: I will.

Friday night came. The cafe was small and filled with soft chatter. When he stepped onto the small stage, she felt her chest tighten. He saw her at once and smiled before playing. The music was raw and honest, like someone speaking in a language made of feelings. When the song ended, their eyes met. He nodded toward an empty seat near the window, as if asking her to wait.

They talked for hours after the show. His name was Ryan. He told her how the city sometimes felt too loud for his thoughts. She laughed and said she understood. They walked home together under the streetlights, their reflections stretched along the wet pavement.

From that night, their windows were no longer enough. They started meeting in person, for morning coffee, for walks by the river, for quiet dinners filled with laughter. The world around them remained busy and restless, but together they found calm.

Then one evening, Ryan got an offer to play music in another city. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for. When he told her, Claire smiled even though she felt something inside her sink.

“You have to go,” she said.

“I do not want to leave you behind,” he replied.

“You are not leaving me. You are just going where you belong.”

They spent one last evening together on her balcony. The city lights flickered below, and he played one more song for her, gentle, unfinished, full of hope.

After he left, the apartment across the street was dark again. For weeks, she missed the glow of his window. But something had changed. She began to write again, not for work, but for herself. Words came easily now, as if his music had left an echo inside her.

Months later, she received a letter. Inside was a photograph of a small stage and a note that read: They loved the song I wrote for you. It is called The Window Between Us.

Claire smiled and placed the photo on her desk. That night, she sat by the balcony with her laptop and began her first story. She titled it The Apartment Across the Street.

Sometimes love does not stay forever. Sometimes it simply opens a window wide enough for light to come in.