It’s the fourth night in a row you haven’t slept.

The ceiling’s no longer interesting. Neither is the glow of your phone screen or the way the fan hums like it’s trying to soothe you but can’t quite manage it. You stopped trying to force rest hours ago. Now, you’re perched at your windowsill—knees tucked up, mug in hand, tea gone cold somewhere between 3AM and regret.

The city’s quiet in that strange, underwater way it gets when everyone else is asleep. No car horns. No late-night arguments bleeding through the walls. Just you and the drip of condensation trailing down your windowpane.

And that light.

It’s been there every night—dim, unwavering, just across the alley. Maybe three floors up, slightly to the right. Someone else who can’t sleep. Someone with a bedside lamp and the same bad luck. You’ve been noticing it for a while now. Not on purpose. Just… repeatedly.

A kind of accidental routine.

You’re not sure what makes you glance up tonight. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the sheer weight of knowing someone else is also awake, also existing quietly. But when you look up—

There’s someone in the window.

Not just a light. A silhouette—tall, lean, posture relaxed like he’s been there a while. You catch only the outline of him at first, then the slow shift of movement as he turns slightly, just enough for you to see him clearly. His hand, curled loosely around a glass of water, wrist resting against the frame. Not tense. Tired. His head tips forward a little, chin dipping like it’s too heavy. The kind of motion people make when they’re trying to stay still but their body’s unraveling anyway.

You don’t expect eye contact. You certainly don’t expect recognition.

But it happens anyway.

Just for a second. Your eyes meet. Distant, fogged by glass and darkness and sleep deprivation. His gaze is steady—not cold, not questioning. Just present. Like he’s been aware of you longer than you realized.

Then, without any rush or surprise, he looks away.

You blink, unsure if you imagined it. You didn’t.

Because now the room across the way is darker. Not gone, not fully. Just a curtain drawn halfway, like the moment was real enough to require a boundary.