5October2025
Im writing this because the past few weeks have turned my life into a film I never meant to star in. I stumbled upon a flat through a cramped advert in the local paper: Prewar building, city centre, cheap, must view ASAP. The place looked like it had survived a war of its ownpeeling parquet, sagging windowsills, but the ceilings were high and the windows enormous.
After my divorce I wasnt hunting for a new home so much as a sanctuary, a space where nobody would ask, Are you sure you wont regret this? I collected the keys on a damp Friday evening. The city already smelled of wet leaves; October always feels like the season where everything falls apart and then tries to put itself back together again.
My first night was sleepless. I wrapped a blanket around me, perched on the sill, and stared at the windows opposite. The flat across the courtyard was a postcard. Fifth floor, a balcony with a burst of crimson petunias, soft golden light spilling into the living room. A family lived there.
I saw a tall man in a grey sweater, a woman with a sleek bobshe looked like shed stepped out of a vintage yoghurt advertand two kids, a girl and a boy. The parents were setting the table while the girl bounced around, the boy clutched her hand, and the mother laughed. The man uncorked a bottle of wine and their laughter travelled through the glass, right into my flat.
I flopped onto my pillow. How long had I gone without hearing a laugh echo through a house?
The next morning I sipped coffee on the same sill, watching them eat breakfast. The man read the paper, the woman brushed the girls hair, the boy raced a toy car across the kitchen floor.
During the day I unpacked my boxes. In the evening I walked to the corner shopjust across the yard. At the lift landing I bumped into the woman from the opposite flat. She was lugging bags of apples and a bottle of cherry cola. One apple slipped from her hand and rolled toward my feet.
Oh! Sorry, she giggled, everythings falling out of my hands today, as usual!
I caught the apple and smiled.
No worries, it happens. Need a hand? she asked.
Would be lovely! Im Helen, your new neighbour, right?
Yes, I moved in a few days ago. Emily.
Then you simply must try my apple crumble! Its a family tradition to welcome newcomers. Mind if I bring it over?
An hour later Helen arrived with a steaming tin, the warm scent of cinnamon filling the hallway, and a tiny glass of vanilla icecream for balance. She was light on her feet, dressed in jeans, a cheeky grin tugging at her lips.
We sat with tea and chatted. Helen told me, We moved here five years ago when an investor helped us refurbish the place. Tom works in IT, the kids are at the local academy. Im thinking of opening a motherandbaby café, a cosy spot for mums with prams.
I listened, smiling, feeling a quiet sting of envy rise in my chest. Your life looks perfect, I said.
We try, Helen nodded. Its not always easy, but we manage.
When she left, I turned back to the opposite flat. Tom leaned against the kitchen doorway, wrapping his arms around Helen from behind. The children tumbled and giggled. I exhaled, thinking, this is how it should bewarm, safe, built on love.
I turned off the lights, but the glowing windows across the street still beckoned like a cinema screen, playing a film I had missed the opening.
—
Later that night Helen knocked, clutching a honey cake in one hand and a knitted tote in the other. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling, but a fresh bruise lingered on the left side of her neck.
Are you alright? I asked.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face, Oh, that? I just knocked over a cupboard and bent over clumsily. Nothing serious.
I didnt believe her, but I kept quiet.
Helen became a regular visitor. At first once a week, then almost dailypies, salads, stories. She told me, Tom and I have a honesty night every Saturday. We air what irritates us, argue for half an hour, then laugh it off. It actually works.
What about the kids? I asked.
We never argue in front of them. They need to see us as a team, she replied.
The routine felt too tidy, textbookperfect. Something didnt sit right.
One evening, walking home together from the shop, Helen confided, I used to be a different personworked in advertising, lived on coffee and cabs. Then I met Tom. He turned my world upside downin a good way. He taught me to be myself, not a performance.
Her words felt rehearsed, like theyd been lifted from a selfhelp book.
A few days later, as I stood by my window, a sudden flash of light burst from the opposite flat, followed by a man’s shout, then a woman’s scream, and a child’s whimper. The door slammed shut, and the lights went out.
The next morning, I met Helen in the lift, sunglasses perched on her nose despite the overcast sky.
Everything alright? I asked.
She laughed weakly, We just burned out. Happens, you know. Dont worry about it.
She left, and the kids in her flat sat silent on the carpet, clutching their toys as if hiding behind them.
When I later visited, I asked cautiously, Is everything okay at home?
Helen froze, kettle in hand, then slowly sat down. Sometimes it feels like Im a display caseperfect family, tidy wife, obedient children. At night I wake up screaming, but no one hears me.
Maybe you should?
Its not what you think. He doesnt hit me; hes just tired. Im not sugar, either. Whos perfect?
I watched her eyes flicker when Tom raised his voice, the girl flinch, the boys shoulders tense. The fairytale had cracked, revealing sharp teeth beneath.
My mind kept circling: perhaps I was projecting my own fears? After the divorce I stopped trusting men, relationships, even myself. Maybe envy was merely heightened vigilance.
One afternoon Helen arrived with pancakes, her hand awkwardly limp. All good? I asked.
She laughed, Just pulled a muscle doing yoga. Nothing serious.
Her smile was plastered, a veneer.
You can trust me if you want, she said.
She then broke, Tom isnt a monster. Hes just exhausted, working hard for us. Im sometimes unbearable. I know Im not the ideal wife.
Her words struck a chord. The night after, the building was quiet, the rain whispering against the sills. A sudden knock sounded on my flat. I opened it to find Helen, drenched, a torn jacket hanging off her shoulders, a fresh bruise on her cheek, and a plush rabbit clutched to her chest.
May I stay for a moment? she whispered.
I let her in, put the kettle on. She confessed, He told me Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be silent hell teach meby hitting. Its not the first time.
The children? I asked.
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Ill help you find a refuge, I said. There are shelters, temporary flats. Youre not alone.
She sobbed, Im terrified of hoping and even more terrified of fearing.
We sat in silence, rain erasing the ache of the day. After a few weeks Helen left, carrying only a backpack, a sack of childrens clothes, and a folder of documents. I found her a modest onebedroom flat with a battered fridge and a cracked bathroom, but it was quiet, free of shouting.
One night, after the snow had finally melted, I rose early, brewed a cup of tea, and walked to the window. The opposite flats were empty; the family that once lived there had vanished, leaving only an imprint of a life once put on display.
I felt a strange calm. No longer jealous, no longer aching, just content. My own home was right here, in this kitchen, in this ordinary life.
A knock at the door announced Helens return, this time with a coat, rosy cheeks, and the children in towa girl with the plush rabbit, a boy clutching a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? she asked.
I laughed, Just got it out of the oven.
The door swung open, inviting not just a flat but a new morning, a life that didnt demand perfection, only honesty.
Lesson:When you stop comparing your window to the one opposite and start looking at the view from your own doorstep, you discover that safety and warmth are built not from flawless façades, but from the real, imperfect connections we choose to nurture.
