Every morning, just as the city began to wake, Ethan raised his camera toward the apartment across the street. And every morning, she was there — the girl in the window, sitting by the curtain with a cup of tea in her hands, staring at something only she could see.
He never knew her name. He never even saw her clearly — just the soft outline of her face, the way light framed her hair, the quiet grace of someone lost in thought. But somehow, she became his muse, his morning ritual, his reason to get up early.
The first photo had been an accident. The rest were not.
He called the series “The Girl in Apartment 302.”
The photos were simple — soft light, muted tones, the stillness of solitude. But there was something about her presence, even from afar, that made each image feel alive. As if she knew she was being watched, yet didn’t mind.
Weeks turned into months. Seasons changed. The leaves outside turned from green to gold, then fell into the gray of winter. Still, she appeared — every morning, same place, same quiet melancholy.
One morning, she wasn’t there.
He waited by the window longer than usual, camera ready. But the curtains stayed closed.
For the first time in months, his world looked empty.
The next day — nothing.
The third — still nothing.
By the end of the week, Ethan couldn’t stand it anymore.
He crossed the street, camera slung over his shoulder, heart pounding. The old apartment building smelled like rain and dust. He climbed the stairs until he found the door: 302.
He hesitated before knocking.
A part of him wondered if this was madness — if crossing from observer to participant would destroy what made it beautiful. But curiosity had already taken over.
The door opened a crack.
“Yes?” A voice — gentle, uncertain.
It wasn’t her.
An older woman stood there, wearing a shawl and kind eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I was looking for the woman who used to live here. The one who always sat by the window.”
The woman’s smile softened, tinged with sadness. “Ah. You must mean Lily.”
“Lily,” he repeated, finally learning her name.
“She moved out last week,” the woman continued. “Said she needed a new view.”
He thanked her and walked back home, rain beginning to fall.
The city blurred through the drizzle — neon lights, umbrellas, and the feeling of something unfinished.
For days after, he couldn’t bring himself to pick up the camera. The world looked dull without her window glowing across the street. But one evening, as he was sorting through his old photographs, something caught his eye.
There — in the last picture he took before she disappeared — a reflection.
In the windowpane, barely visible, was him. His own silhouette, caught in the glass, looking at her.
He stared at it for a long time, heart racing. It wasn’t just him she’d been looking at. She’d known.
That night, as he stood by his window again, he noticed something new. Across the street, where Apartment 302 had been dark for days, a light flickered on. The curtains parted — not fully, just enough.
And there, taped to the inside of the glass, was a small Polaroid.
His breath caught.
He lifted his camera, zooming in. The photo was grainy but clear enough to see — it was one of his pictures. The one of her smiling faintly, face half-hidden by light.
Below it, a note written in blue ink:
“Thank you for seeing me.”
He smiled for the first time in weeks, rain still tapping against the glass.
The next morning, the Polaroid was gone.
But so was the emptiness.
He lifted his camera once more, pointed it at the empty window, and took another shot — not of her, but of what remained:
Light. Silence. Memory.
Sometimes, that was enough.