Apartment Opposite
I found the flat through a random advert: Victorian, city centre, cheap, urgent. It was suspiciously cheap, with scuffed parquet and peeling windowsills, but the ceilings were high and the windows enormous.
After my divorce I wasnt looking for a roof over my head so much as a refugea place where no one asks, Are you sure you wont regret this?
I got the keys on a Friday evening. The town already smelled of damp leaves. October, that month when everything starts to fall apart and then rebuild itself.
The first night I barely slept. Wrapped in a blanket, I perched on the sill and stared at the windows opposite. The flat across the courtyard was like a picture on a postcard: fifth floor, a balcony with crimson petunias, the livingroom light soft and warm. A family lived there.
I saw a tall man in a grey sweater, a woman with a sleek braid who looked like shed stepped out of an old yoghurt advert, and two childrena girl and a boy. They were setting the table together. The girl bounced, the boy held her hand, the mother smiled, the father uncorked a bottle of red. Their laughter even travelled through the glass.
I sank onto my pillow and wondered how long it had been since Id heard laughter in a house.
The next morning I drank tea on the same sill and watched again. The father read the newspaper, the mother smoothed the girls hair, the boy raced around with a toy car.
During the day I unpacked boxes. In the evening I walked to the corner shop across the courtyard and, as I turned into the building entrance, I ran into the woman from the opposite flat. She was juggling a bag of apples and a bottle of cherry cola. An apple rolled under my foot.
Oh! Sorry, she laughed. Everythings slipping out of my hands today, as usual!
I caught the apple and smiled.
No worries. Need a hand?
Would be lovely! Im Emma. You just moved in, right?
Yes, a few days ago. Claire.
Then you simply must try my apple strudel! Its a family custom to treat new neighbours. Shall I bring it over?
Emma appeared an hour later, cradling a hot tin of spiced strudel, the scent of cinnamon filling the hallway, and a small bowl of vanilla icecream for dessert balance. She was light on her feet, dressed in jeans, a quirky ponytail, and a grin that stretched a little too wide.
We sat with tea and talked. Emma told me:
We moved here five years ago. We were lucky an investor came along and we renovated. My husband works in IT, the kids go to the local academy. Im at home now, thinking about opening a popup café for mums and babies, a cosy spot where you can chat without hurrying.
I listened, smiled, and felt something quiet yet sharp stir inside mesomething that felt like envy.
You have it all, really. Everything feels genuine.
We try, Emma nodded.
When Emma left, I returned to the window. Across the courtyard, Emma was at the stove, her husband wrapping her from behind, their children leaping, tumbling, giggling. I exhaled.
This is how it should be: warm, safe, born of love. I switched off the lights, but even as I drifted to sleep the windows opposite glowed like a cinema screen, showing a film I had missed.
Claire, are you home? Ive brought a honey cake!
I opened the door to Emma, holding a cake in one hand and a knitted bag in the other. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling, but a fresh bruise traced a line just below her collarbone.
Youve got a bruise. All right?
Emma tugged at the edge of her sweater.
Oh, that? Im a bit clumsy. I didnt close the cupboard door properly and then I bent over silly, I know.
I didnt believe her, but I said nothing.
Emma started visiting often. At first once a week, then almost daily, bringing pies, salads, stories.
We and my husband have a honesty night every Saturday. We tell each other what irritates us, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It actually works!
What about the kids?
We have a rule: never fight in front of them. They need to see us as a team.
I listened, but increasingly felt something off. Too perfect. Too textbook.
One evening, walking home together from the shop, Emma confided:
You know, I used to be a completely different person. I worked in advertising, lived on coffee and cabs. Then I met James. He turned my world upside down.
In what way?
In a good way, of course! He taught me to be myself, to stop pretending.
I nodded, yet the words sounded rehearsed, as if lifted from a selfhelp manual.
A few days later, out of habit, I stood at the window again. The flat opposite was dim, then a flash of light, a male shout, a female scream, a childs wail, and the door slammed. The lights went out within minutes.
In the morning I met Emma in the hallway. She wore sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
Everything okay? I asked.
Yes, just weve burned out a bit. Happens. Dont worry.
I didnt know what to say, but I nodded.
When I visited the family, the children sat silently on the carpet, clutching toys as if hiding behind them. Emma set out tea, and I asked gently,
Are you sure everythings alright?
Emma froze, kettle in hand, then sat slowly.
You know, sometimes it feels like Im living in a shop window. Everyone sees the happy family, the tidy wife, the obedient kids. And at night I sometimes wake up screaming, but nobody hears.
I think you should
No, its not what you think. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not sugar either. Whos perfect?
That night I watched them again. They were sipping tea, laughing, yet I saw the daughter flinch when her father raised his voice, saw Emma avert her eyes, heard her husband speak through clenched teeth. A beautiful fairytale, but underneath the veneer were grinding teeth.
I kept wondering: maybe Im wrong? Maybe this is all my projection? After the divorce I stopped trusting men, relationships, even myself. Perhaps envy simply sharpened my vigilance. Yet every new encounter with Emma added to my anxiety.
One day Emma arrived with pancakes. She held her hand oddly, barely bending it.
Everything okay?
Just a muscle strain. Yoga isnt a joke.
Her smile was still plastic, displaywindow perfect.
You can trust me if you want.
Emmas tone shifted, as if a switch had been flipped.
Claire, please dont start. Hes not a monster. Hes just exhausted. He works so we can live, and I I can be unbearable sometimes. I know that.
Youre not the only unbearable one You have a bruise, Emma. You wear sunglasses when its gloomy. You whisper to the kids.
Its how it has to be.
What does has to be mean?
If you dont get it youve never really been married.
I didnt know how to answer. Then Emma left.
That evening I watched a drama on TV, but heard nothing. My heart thumped, a light panic rose like a storm before it.
Then came the sound. First a dull thump, then a screama womans, followed quickly by a mans sharp shout:
Silence! I said silence!
It sounded as if something had been knocked over, a screech. I froze, then rose, moved to the window. Light burned in the opposite flat. Shadows flitted like a rehearsed play. A scream, then a childs cry, and thensilence.
My hands trembled as I dialed 999. The operators voice was calm, almost soothing.
Are you sure this is violence?
Yes, I heard blows and a scream. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call? Any proof?
I… I had no proof. Just the night and the feeling that if I didnt act now things would get worse.
Well log the call. A patrol will be sent, but its better you dont get involved directly.
The patrol arrived after forty minutes. I heard footsteps, voices, then the front door slammed and silence returned. Through the window I saw the husband of Emmas husband standing in the doorway, speaking politely with officers, papers in hand. Emma was nowhere to be seen.
The next morning there was a tentative knock on my door.
Emma.
Her eyes were puffy, hair hastily tied back, fingers trembling.
May I come in?
I let her in without a word, set the kettle on.
Did you call the police?
No. I had no choice.
She sat, staring at a point on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wife if I cooked, smiled, obeyed he would love me. He would soften. He would see I was trying. But each week he squeezes a little tighter.
You could leave.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no relatives, nothing.
You have me.
Emmas eyes widened, then she pressed a hand to her lips and burst into tears.
Youre the only one who doesnt pretend not to see. Everyone else looks away, even at the academy where my daughter studies. No one says anything. It feels like were living in darkness.
Its not darkness for me.
But youre not a rescuer. Youre just a neighbour.
And youre not a thing.
She stayed silent for a long while, then rose.
Ill leave. Not today, but I will.
I nodded, feeling suddenly that I was not just a spectator but a faint light in someone elses windowdim, but warm.
The night was thick like set jam. Darkness filled the panes, the air was still, only the rain murmuring on the sill. When I heard a knock I first thought it was my imagination, then again, deliberate, twice.
I opened the door, a breath caught in my throat.
Emma, in a halfopen dressing gown, slippers, no coat, hair damp, face tearstreaked, a fresh bruise on her cheek, clutching a plush rabbit.
May I just stay for a while? she whispered.
I let her in. She curled on the sofa corner, hugging the rabbit, shoulders shaking.
He says Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be silent, hell teach me. Then he hit me. Not hard, but it isnt the first time.
Are the children?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Emma, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere else. He has money, connections. Im nobody. I cant even get a job. With the kids, no one will take me.
I sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of her.
You are a person. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill find something. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Claire. Im tired of fearing and even more tired of hoping.
Im here. Im not a hero, but I wont turn away.
She fell silent, then rested her head on my shoulder, hugging the rabbit like a child.
Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt say Its your fault. You just exist.
And Ill stay as long as you need me to.
We sat for a long time, listening to the rain erase the old pain.
Emma left two weeks later, with only a backpack, a sack of childrens clothes, and a neat folder of documents.
I held that folder as we stepped out onto the dim street, the building asleep. The children walked silently, the girl holding her brothers hand, the rabbit peeking from the backpack like a SOS flag.
The flat I found for Emma was modest: a single room, peeling bathroom tiles, an ancient fridge. But it was quiet, and there was no one shouting, no one throwing things.
This is a fresh start, Emma said as the kids finally fell asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Claire youre the first line of this new page. Thank you.
I only nodded.
Everything then spun. I called support centres, spoke to solicitors, drafted statements. Emma relearned to live: taking remote gigs, buying groceries from a list, sleeping with the lights off without dread. The children adjusted slowly. One day the boy handed me a drawing: two women, two children, the words above it: Claires.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, and something thawed in my own heart. I woke early, made tea, and, as before, went to the window.
The opposite flats were empty. The woman who had lived there was gonenot just from the flat but from that rehearsed life where shed been displayed as the perfect wife.
I watched and felt a calm I hadnt known since the divorce: no envy, no pain, no loneliness. My home was here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded at the door, and I went to answer.
Emma stood there in a coat, cheeks pink, the children behind her. The girl clutched the plush rabbit, the boy a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? she asked.
I laughed.
Come in. I just pulled something out of the oven.
The door swung opennot just into a flat, but into morning, into a life that didnt demand perfection, only honesty.
