Between Windows

                Chapter 1.







Spring came suddenly. Not by calendar, not by thaw—but by scent. The earth reached for the sky like a weary man toward the morning light. The stairwell smelled of dust and strangers’ jackets no one bothered to button anymore.

He stood by the window with a cup of cheap coffee, watching her walk. Again without a hat, again in that blue coat that made his chest tighten. She moved lightly, almost floating. Unhurried. She knew he would see.

She always walked like that when she knew he was at the window.

He knew her schedule, though he never asked. She was a neighbor. Third floor, window across. Loud laugh, the first to say hello, always speaking fast. She had a boyfriend—tall, silent, with a face like it had been carved with an axe.

He saw her leave with that guy, saw her return. Heard them laugh through the wall. Knew when they fought—by the heavy silence and the clumsy lock turning at two in the morning.

But when she spoke to him—that boyfriend seemed not to exist. She laughed, asked if he got lonely living alone, consulted him on small things, like he was someone close. Too close.

He didn’t believe her. And yet, he lived from smile to smile.

He didn’t know her real name. He’d heard the neighbors call her Lera. But the name felt false. Too plain for someone who looked at him like that.

He didn’t imagine a future. Didn’t dream of kisses, walks, or late-night talks in the kitchen. He just… lived nearby. Silently. With pain, like an extra limb. With the faith that one day that pain would exhale and leave, like a draft slipping out a window.

But for now—she was there. Behind the wall. In the window. In his thoughts. In his sleep.

And in his heart. But not in his soul.

Not yet.

She knocked on his door one evening, when he wasn’t expecting anyone. Three quick raps—urgent, informal. Not the mailman. Not a neighbor with a complaint. Not the police. Just—her.

He opened. She stood with a bag of food and a shy smile. In her coat, scarfless. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold—or was it something else?

"I overdid it with the pasta," she said. "Was going to throw it out, but... you live alone, right?"

He nodded. Said nothing. Just stepped aside. She entered like she'd been there before.

"It’s quiet here," she observed. "No music? No TV?"

"I don’t like noise," he said. "There’s enough of it in my head already."

She set the bag on the table and took out the container. He saw her hands tremble. Or maybe imagined it.

"Thank you," he said. "For the pasta. And for... just because."

"There’s no such thing as 'just because'," she replied, holding his gaze. Too long.

He pretended not to notice. Set the plates. Sat across from her. She talked about small things—the stairwell, how her boyfriend skipped dinner again, a movie she didn’t finish.

He listened. And kept wondering: why did she come? Because she was lonely? Because she liked to cook? Or because she knew he wouldn’t say no?

That night he didn’t sleep. She had left the way she came—in silence. Almost without goodbye. But her scent lingered in the kitchen. And in the air remained a shadow—like a touch that never happened, yet he could feel it.

He knew: this was dangerous. The beginning of something unnameable. But he couldn’t stop it anymore.

She stood in front of her mirror, wiping off makeup with a cotton pad. Her reflection looked dull, like in water—not real. Tired, a little older, but with the same spark she tried so hard to hide.

The room was dim. Her boyfriend snored in the other room, face buried in the pillow like a bulldog. Next to him—remote, beer, and silence. A silence that didn’t heal.

Lera wiped her lips. Not from lipstick—but from something else. From touches that never were. From words she didn’t say.

Why had she gone to him? Just to give him pasta? No. It was a test. Of herself. Of him. Of feelings she didn’t allow herself to have. He was calm. Quiet. Warm, but not sticky. Breathing in his kitchen felt easier. He didn’t pressure, didn’t pull, didn’t demand. He just looked at her like he saw something clean. Something no one had searched for in a long time.

And it scared her.

She hadn’t wanted to leave, but she had. Because another step—and she wouldn’t betray her boyfriend. She’d betray herself. Her mask. Her act of being strong, free, modern. When in truth—she was lonely to the point of tears.

Lera turned on the tap to drown herself out. Then turned it off. Walked to the window. His window—dark. Probably awake. He didn’t seem like someone who slept well.

She touched her forehead to the glass. Wanted to cry. Couldn’t. Her lips trembled—and that was all. The rest stayed locked inside, as always.

She didn’t know what would come next. Only one thing was clear: he was danger. But also salvation. And men like that come only once in life. And usually—not at the right time.

He woke up late, exhausted. The coffee tasted bitter, like someone had spiked it with truth. He expected no calls, no knocks. Yet still listened. Hoped. Against reason.

He stepped into the stairwell for a smoke. The air was heavy, dusty. On the railing—her handprint. He knew: it was hers. No one else left touches like that.

A door slammed below. He froze. It could’ve been her. Or the wind. Or someone else. Didn’t matter. He didn’t go to her. He waited for her to come. And she didn’t.

The day dragged. Thick. He tried to read, but the words fell apart. Music annoyed him. He stood again by the window. Her curtain was closed. Just slightly open.

And then—her face. For a second. A glance. Seemed accidental. But he knew—it wasn’t.

She looked at him. Through the curtain. Through the wall. Through herself.

He didn’t smile. Just stood. And so did she. And in that silence there was everything: confession, fear, desire, a ban, guilt, hope.

He looked away first. Not because he was weak. Because he knew—if he looked longer, he wouldn’t hold on. And if he didn’t hold on—he’d break.

And he had promised himself: not to let her into his soul.

Not yet.

But his heart was already cracking.



                Chapter 2.




He heard the shouting by accident. He wasn’t eavesdropping, wasn’t standing by the door. He was just coming home late, climbing to his floor—and from behind the wall, a voice hit like a slap. Her voice. Lera’s. Agitated, cracked.

"...don’t you dare talk to me like that!" Then, muffled, barely audible: "I’m not your property."

He froze. One step from his door. Breath held. Words blurry, fragmented. Then a man’s voice—dull, harsh:

"Back at the neighbor’s, huh? I can tell when you lie. You think I don’t see how you look at him?"

Then—silence. The kind that coils inside your gut. He couldn’t move. Wanted to leave—couldn’t. Stood there like carved stone. Then came the sound of something falling. Her steps. The door slammed in their apartment. And—silence again.

He walked into his own place. Locked the door. Sat in the dark. He knew nothing. And knew everything. That silence—that was the blow. Worse than a scream.

He poured himself wine. Drank slowly. For a long time. Not from desire—from helplessness. Tried to forget. Failed. Because now what stood between them wasn’t just attraction. Not just danger. Now—there was her pain.

He didn’t see her in the morning. Or the day after. Her curtain stayed drawn. Mailbox untouched. She’d vanished. And against his better judgment, he started waiting. Worrying. Hating his own weakness.

On the third day, he saw her by the elevator.

No makeup. Pale face, red eyes, lips curved into a familiar restrained smile. She smiled. Too calmly.

"Hey," she said, like nothing had happened. "Missed me?"

He didn’t answer. Just looked. Not at her lips. At her eyes. There was something in them he hadn’t seen before. Something far away. Like the shadow of a childhood where no one had come to the rescue.

"You don’t have to pretend," he said.

"And you don’t have to be that honest," she replied softly. "We’re not in a novel."

They rode the elevator in silence. Then she walked out. He didn’t follow. But his chest tightened. Because he saw it—she was breaking. And breaking is scarier than lying.

That evening, he gave in. Wrote her. One word: "You?"—and a period. No exclamation. No question mark. Because he knew—she would understand.

Her reply came an hour later: "Not now. Please."

And he understood: she needed him. But wasn’t ready. She wanted silence. But he had already become noise in her head.

He turned off the light. Lay down. But didn’t sleep. Stared at the ceiling. For a long time. Until he began to pray. Not to God. Not to fate. To himself. To have enough strength. To love—without destroying.

For now—not destroy.

She didn’t show. A week of silence. A week of an empty window. He didn’t look on purpose, but his eyes always drifted there. Habit—stronger than will. He waited, like one waits for rain in a drought: wanting it, fearing it might wash everything away.

On the seventh day, he saw her. Morning. Down by the entrance. Talking to a woman in a colorful coat. Laughter. Light, ringing. A smile. Just like before. But not for him. For another world. Without him.

And then something inside him snapped. Without anger. Without pain. Just… fell off. Like a dead leaf. Like an illusion lived too long.

He went to the park. Aimless. Thoughtless. Just to avoid home. The trees were still bare. The wind—sharp. People passed like mirages. And then—a voice.

"Do you come here often?"

Her. Next to him. No warning. No drama. She just appeared.

He stopped. Looked. And knew instantly: she was back in her armor. In her roles. But in her eyes—still burned what had been.

"Sometimes," he said. "When I don’t want to be home."

"Seems like you never want to be home," she said, staring ahead. "You’ve got this… need to escape."

He gave a sad smile.

"And you—need to hide."

She didn’t answer. Then sat on a bench. Stared at the empty path. Like she was looking for an answer there.

"You know," she said quietly, "I used to think you were just a neighbor. Someone to laugh with. Chat with. I played at being carefree. But then... I couldn’t exhale."

He stayed silent. His heart pounded like the first day. But now he understood: behind that lovely shell was a wound no one had ever touched gently.

"I’m not your way out, Lera. And you’re not mine," he said. "But you’ve become my silence. And I—for you, I’m the noise."

She nodded. Didn’t argue. For the first time—she didn’t play. Just sat. As she was. Unmasked. Unarmed.

"I don’t know what’ll happen to us," she whispered. "But I don’t want you to disappear."

He looked at her. Then at the sky. Sunlight stung his eyes, but he didn’t look away.

"I won’t disappear. But I won’t enter—until you ask me to."

She nodded. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

And in that moment, something passed between them. Not a touch. Not a confession. Just—mutual understanding. That they were no longer strangers.

Even if they weren’t together.

Not yet.

                Chapter 3.




The old five-story building lived its own parallel life. The radiators clanked with air, the elevator creaked like an asthmatic old man, and in the courtyard, among patches of dirty snow, kids kicked a ball as if spring would come not tomorrow, but right this second.

Neighbors rarely greeted each other. Every window hid its own story. Someone dried bedding, someone smoked with a hand stretched outside, someone cursed loud enough not to bother closing the window. The world lived as it could—hastily, grayly, facelessly.

He often caught himself watching people. How they moved, how they talked, how they touched each other. Everything became a symbol: other people’s hands—a reminder, other people’s voices—an irritation. In others he searched for fragments of Lera. And at the same time—wished to forget her completely.

Every morning by the entrance stood an old woman in a dark knitted shawl. She never spoke to anyone. Just watched. Once, he nodded to her—she nodded back. A second time—she nodded first. The third time—she approached.

"You’re too quiet," she said, like continuing an old conversation. "That’s not good."

He wanted to smirk, but couldn’t.

"And how should I be?"

She gestured vaguely behind her.

"Sometimes you have to shout. Even inside. Otherwise wounds fester."

He didn’t reply. Just walked away. But after that, he began to notice her more often. She wasn’t watching out of curiosity. She understood. As if she knew how stories like his ended.

One day he saw Lera leaving the building with a bag. She walked quickly, purposefully. Dressed brightly, boldly. Like she didn’t belong to this house. This life.

At the bus stop, a man approached her. Not her boyfriend. Someone else entirely. Stylish, talkative. She laughed. Smiled. Acted light, carefree. As if she had never stood in his kitchen. As if they had never sat in silence in the park.

He turned away. Then looked again. She stood with her back to him, but he felt it—she knew he was there. She felt him. Yet still played the role.

He walked away. Not because he was jealous. Not because he was angry. But because he understood: she belonged to no one. Not even herself.

Later, on the stairs, he ran into the old woman again. She looked at him intently.

"So, boy. Does it hurt yet?"

He nodded.

"Then you’re still alive," she said, and walked off without looking back.

And in her words there was more truth than in any confession.

He went home. Closed the door. And for the first time, didn’t go to the window.

He just sat. And allowed himself silence.

Without her. Without himself. Just—a silence that heals.

                Chapter 4.




Lera didn’t call. Didn’t write. Didn’t appear.

He didn’t know how to endure the silence. Didn’t know how not to hope. Every time a door slammed in the hallway, every time someone’s steps echoed on the stairs, he listened, like a soldier on the front line. But—never her.

He went back to the park. It was cold, but empty. He sat on the same bench where they had once been silent together. Nearby, someone had left a thermos with unfinished tea. Everything felt alien, temporary. The world didn’t know his pain. And didn’t care to.

He didn’t know if he loved her. Didn’t know what that word even meant when you feared someone more than you desired them. When their name was your prayer—but without reply. When you remembered every contour of their face, but couldn’t say a single word aloud.

Sometimes he thought he had imagined her. That it had all been a dream. The coat. The pasta. The laughter. Her whisper. But the trace left in his soul was too deep. Like a wound sewn up crooked. And the more he tried to erase her—the clearer it became: she wasn’t a memory. She was blood. Living inside.

The letter came unexpectedly. On paper. Left in the mailbox without a stamp. Just a folded sheet. Recognizable handwriting. His hands trembled as he opened it.

"I don’t know why I’m writing. I just can’t help it. I left him. Not because of you. Because of me. I’m staying at a friend’s. I need time. Please don’t wait for me. But don’t forget me either. You were light. And I’ve grown too used to the dark. —L."

He read it several times. And didn’t know—should he feel joy or not. It was hope. But without promise. Like the smell of rain on dry earth—pleasant, but doesn’t end the drought. As he read, he felt his heart, clenched for so long, begin to loosen. Slowly. Cautiously. And the pain inside—it wasn’t just suffering anymore. It was love. Not earthly. Not demanding. Just—existing.

He placed the letter under the lamp. Like an icon. Didn’t touch it again. Didn’t reread it. Just knew—it was there. And that meant something.

He met the old woman again. She was sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons.

"You again," she said, not looking at him. "So you’re still breathing."

"She’s gone," he said.

She nodded.

"That’s good."

"Why?"

"Now you’ll find out who you are without her."

He sat down beside her. For the first time.

"And what if I’m nobody without her?"

"Then that’s your truth too. But better to know than live your whole life in an illusion."

He looked at his hands. Empty. Not because they held no one. But because they’d never dared to. Never protected. Never confessed. He felt it—someone inside him, not him, kept living through her. In every gesture. Every glance. In how he held his breath when he heard her name in his head.

The old woman handed him a piece of bread.

"You have to feed something. Even when no one feeds you."

He took it. Smiled. Just a little.

A week passed. Then another. He began to sleep. Truly. Without dreams. Without pain. He started to notice women. Not with lust—with curiosity. Like he was recovering from a long illness. But in each of them—he looked for her. And in none—he found her.

And then—a message.

"I missed you. I’m nearby. Can we just talk?"

He didn’t respond right away. Five minutes. Ten. Half an hour. Then—"Yes."

She came an hour later. No makeup. In a coat. Hair tied back. Her eyes full of anxiety. Like before a confession. And he understood: she was beautiful not because she was flawless. But because she was vulnerable.

"Hi," she said softly. "I thought you wouldn’t open."

He shrugged.

"So did I."

They sat. In silence. Then she said:

"I want to be honest. For the first time. With you. I ruined everything. Everyone. Myself. I don’t know who I am. But if you just stay close—I might become someone."

He looked at her like one looks at fire. With reverence and fear. He nodded. Without words. He understood: this wasn’t love that demands. This was love that forgives. That stays, even when you’re just a shadow.




                Chapter 5.




They began seeing each other. No plans. No labels. Just being near. She baked pies. He brought books. They didn’t call it anything. And in that, there was truth. Their quiet, invisible love couldn’t be explained. It was there—in silence. In how he poured her tea. In how she looked out the window, knowing he wouldn’t leave.

Sometimes he wanted to touch her. But didn’t. Because he knew: love wasn’t a touch. It was respect for another’s boundary. It was sitting in silence next to someone afraid of noise.

One night she came late. In the rain. Soaked. Wordless. He opened the door—and she just hugged him. Tightly. With pain.

He stood, breathless. Then embraced her in return.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for not asking for anything."

He heard everything in those words: forgiveness, fear, hope. She trembled like a leaf, but clung to him like to salvation. In her touch lived a depth she had hidden for years. And he accepted it. Wordlessly. Without condition.

That night, they slept side by side. Not touching. But feeling each other’s breath.

And he realized: he wasn’t afraid anymore. And she—no longer hid.

It wasn’t the beginning of a romance. It was the beginning of endless understanding.

Spring returned. For real this time. The sun stung the eyes, trees bloomed. Kids played ball again in the courtyard. The old woman in the shawl sat on the bench and smiled.

"So, boy. You survived?"

"I survived," he answered.

"Then live."

He nodded. But deep inside, he knew: to live means to feel. To stop fearing pain. To choose love again and again. Not for happiness. But for truth.

He walked home slowly, almost in step with spring. The air was full of sounds: birds, footsteps, a bike bell. Everything felt new. The world was the same—but something had opened. As if, through months of waiting, he’d learned to see not with eyes, but with heart.

Lera stood at the window. A faint smile on her lips. She looked at the street. At the light. At him. Her face—clear, a little tired, but no longer frightened. As if, for the first time in a long time, she was at home not in her apartment, but in herself.

He came up, opened the door—and she was already in the hallway. Waiting. Saying nothing. Just looking. In her eyes was everything unspoken: pain, apology, and slowly growing trust.

He approached. Stood beside her.

"Will we be together?" she asked, not looking away.

He watched her for a long time. Her arms hung at her sides, shoulders trembling. But in that fragility—was real strength. And he knew: it was her he loved. Not for her looks. Not for her kindness. But for how she stood tall when everything fell apart.

"We already are," he said. "Just—not like in books. But for real."

She stepped closer. Touched his hand—for the first time. And that touch wasn’t a spark. Not a call. It was a vow.

"I’m scared," she whispered.

"And I’m calm," he said. "That means we’re right."

They sat on the windowsill. Looked out. Silent. And that silence was music. No need for words anymore. Everything had already been said by their silence. By the long path to each other. By their inner, unearthly connection.

And he knew: maybe tomorrow everything would become fragile again. Maybe there would be pain. But he wouldn’t leave. And she wouldn’t run.

Because now—they weren’t shadows. Now—they were light.

And the love that began as impossibility had become the reason they both could live. Not like in fairy tales. But in truth.




                THE END.