The first thing Liam did in his new apartment was set up his armchair by the window. The second thing was to notice the window directly across the street. And the third was to see Elara, unpacking a box, her hair catching the afternoon sun in a way he knew by heart.
He jerked back as if burned, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. It couldn’t be. It was a cruel, cosmic joke.
Across the twenty-yard chasm of city street, Elara froze, a familiar book in her hand. She’d chosen the apartment for the light. She hadn’t known it came with a view of her past. There he was, a living silhouette in the frame of his window. Her breath hitched.
And so, the silent ballet began.
The next morning, Liam made his coffee slowly, deliberately not looking up until the very last moment. When he did, he allowed himself a three-second glance. She was watering a fern on her sill. She never looked his way.
Elara felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. She focused intensely on the fern’s leaves, her knuckles white on the watering can. Don’t look. Don’t acknowledge it. She lasted a full minute before her eyes flickered upward. His back was turned. A small, foolish disappointment bloomed in her chest.
Days turned into a week. He would read in his chair; she would paint at her easel. They were performers in parallel plays, their stages lit by opposing lamps. They learned each other’s new routines. He ordered Thai food on Tuesdays. She stayed up late on Fridays, watching old movies, the blue flicker illuminating her face.
Once, he caught her crying, her shoulders shaking silently. His own hands clenched into fists, a helpless, ancient instinct to comfort roaring to life. He stayed at his window until she rose, wiped her eyes, and drew the blinds.
Another time, she saw him laughing on a video call, a laugh she hadn’t heard in months. It sent a sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy through her. She closed her curtains, the fabric a flimsy barrier against the ache.
They were masters of pretense. If their eyes ever met by accident, it was a blank, casual glance, as if looking at a piece of furniture or a parked car. No recognition. No history. Just two strangers in a city of millions, separated by a street and a chasm of unsaid words.
Tonight, a thunderstorm rolled in. The power flickered and died in both their buildings, plunging the street into darkness. Lit only by the occasional flash of lightning, they were drawn to their windows at the same time.
For the first time, there were no lamps to hide behind, no routines to fake. In the stark, electric-blue flash, their eyes met. No pretense, no denial. Just a raw, silent acknowledgment of the space between them, both the twenty yards of asphalt and the five years of love and loss.
Then, the light faded, leaving them in profound darkness, the image of each other’s faces seared onto their vision.
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