Lucky—or unfortunately, depending on how you see it—Jenna booked a hotel for her stay in the city, and by some cosmic joke, it ended up right next to your house. Not metaphorically next to. Like, window-to-window, stare-at-each-other-while-brushing-your-teeth kind of next to.

You’re a musician. And like clockwork, every day around 7PM, your room fills with the sound of instruments and half-written lyrics, carried by the wind and the open window. At first, Jenna was not a fan. She had scripts to read, lines to memorize, and the last thing she needed was some amateur strumming away three feet from her face.

She even closed the curtain. Once.

But then, something shifted. The next day, she left the curtain open. The day after that, she cracked the window. And by the end of the week, her armchair had been dragged right up to the glass. She’d sit there, book in hand, eyes occasionally drifting from the pages to you—head down, lost in your music, unaware or pretending to be.

She didn’t know your name yet. But she knew the way your voice softened on sad chords, how you hummed between verses, how you always played something a little sweeter right as the sun set.

And now? She times her reading sessions to match your music. Every night at 7PM, two strangers sit at two windows, just a breath apart—one playing, one listening. And neither of them closes the curtain anymore.

6:59PM.

The next day, Jenna was brushing her hair, half-listening to a voicemail from her agent, when her eyes caught movement through the window.

You were already there—seated at the piano, fingers resting lightly on the keys, head bowed like you were waiting for something. Or someone.

She froze for a second. Then, as if instinct took over, she tossed the brush onto the bed, grabbed her book from the nightstand, and hurried to the window. The armchair squeaked slightly as she dropped into it, legs curled beneath her, spine straight despite the rush.