Kyra D’Souza
Part 1 – The Rooftop Silence
The city never really sleeps, but there are these odd hours when even the traffic feels like it’s breathing slow. Three in the morning, maybe four. You don’t check the clock because if you do, you’ll be reminded that life is running faster than you are, and you’re not ready to feel guilty again. So you let time blur, let the empty streets below hum like background music.
On the rooftop of an old building where the paint has peeled into random maps, I sit with my knees pulled up, cigarette unlit between my fingers. I don’t smoke. Not yet. The stick is just an excuse to hold on to something, like people hold prayer beads or iPhones. My best friend says the rooftop is dangerous, that I’ll fall or jump or think too much. She’s right about the last one.
I stare at the rectangle of sky caught between two taller towers. It looks trapped, like a bird in a cage. And maybe that’s how I feel too—squeezed between all the things I should be and all the things I’m not. People keep telling me to find balance, like it’s a yoga pose you can nail if you practice hard enough. But no one says what to do when balance itself feels like a scam.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It’s probably notifications, or him. I don’t want either. I just want the silence. Except silence here isn’t really silence—it’s pipes clanging, a dog barking somewhere far, someone laughing too loud in the street below. But compared to the chaos of my head, it’s close enough.
I pull out my journal. It’s black, with the word “breathe” embossed on the cover in fake gold. I don’t believe in the word anymore, but I like the irony. I flip through pages filled with half-thoughts, angry scribbles, poems that sound like they belong to someone older. On the last page I wrote: What if home isn’t a place, but a pause in the noise?
Maybe that’s why I’m here. Looking for a pause.
There’s this stray cat that shows up sometimes. White, except for a black tail that looks dipped in ink. Tonight she appears again, slinking through the water tank shadows, green eyes catching streetlight. She sits beside me like she owns the place, and I let her. Her presence makes the rooftop less lonely, though she doesn’t care if I exist. That’s what I like about animals—they don’t expect you to play roles.
Down below, a siren cuts through the night. Police or ambulance, doesn’t matter. Both mean trouble. I close my eyes and imagine being in the back of that van, moving through empty streets, destination unknown. There’s something seductive about leaving everything behind.
But running away doesn’t fix anything. I learned that last winter when I disappeared for two days without telling anyone. No plan, no bag, just hopped on a random bus until the city was a blur. The freedom lasted six hours before fear kicked in. By the time I came back, everyone was pissed, and I was still the same mess, only hungrier. Lesson learned: geography doesn’t erase who you are.
The cat meows, breaking my spiral. I laugh softly. “You think I’m crazy too, huh?” She blinks slow, which I’ve heard is a cat’s way of saying trust. Maybe that’s the closest thing to love I’ll get tonight.
I hear footsteps behind me and freeze. For a second, paranoia spikes—what if someone’s followed me? But then a familiar voice says, “Couldn’t sleep again?” It’s Aarav, my neighbor, the boy who’s been climbing rooftops longer than I’ve been spilling ink in journals.
He sits down next to me, leaving a careful gap like he knows the rules of my space. He’s wearing that faded hoodie with paint stains, the one that smells of turpentine and dust. He studies art, but I think he’s more of a collector of silence, like me.
“I didn’t want company,” I mutter, but not harshly.
“Too bad,” he replies. His voice is low, steady, almost lazy. The kind of tone that doesn’t ask for answers, just exists.
For a while we don’t speak. The cat moves closer to him, rubs against his hand. He pets her absentmindedly. I wonder if she prefers him. Probably.
“Do you ever feel like you’re waiting for something, but you don’t know what it is?” I ask finally, surprising myself.
He nods. “All the time. Like the city owes me a secret it hasn’t told yet.”
That line hangs in the air, heavier than the smog. I like it. I like that he said it without pretending to have wisdom, without quoting some philosopher off Instagram. Just his own truth.
The towers on either side of us flicker with late-night windows—people awake, chasing deadlines, or chasing each other. We’re all awake for different reasons, but maybe underneath, it’s the same reason: no one really knows what to do with themselves at 3 AM.
Aarav pulls something from his pocket. A sketchbook. He opens to a page and shows me. It’s a rough drawing of the skyline from this rooftop. The rectangle of sky I’ve been staring at, captured in pencil lines. Except in his version, the space isn’t trapped. It stretches wider, almost breaking out.
“It looks freer,” I say.
“That’s the trick,” he answers. “You draw the cage until it disappears.”
I don’t know why, but my throat tightens. I look away, pretending to adjust my hair. Zen isn’t about perfection, I remember reading once. It’s about seeing clearly. Maybe he sees clearer than me.
The wind picks up, cool against my skin. The cigarette is still in my hand, unlit. Aarav notices. “You gonna smoke that, or just hold it like a prop?”
“Maybe I like pretending.”
He shrugs. “Pretending’s fine. As long as you know you’re pretending.”
That hits deeper than I want it to. Because isn’t that what I do every day? Pretend to be okay, pretend to be in control, pretend that the pause I’m chasing is within reach.
The cat jumps down and disappears into the night, like she was never here. Aarav zips up his hoodie, glances at me once, then at the skyline. “Don’t fall asleep out here,” he says, and leaves.
I’m alone again, but something’s shifted. Maybe it’s the drawing in my mind, that stretch of sky he reimagined. Maybe it’s the fact that someone else admitted to waiting too. Whatever it is, I feel less heavy. Not lighter, exactly. Just less heavy.
I tuck the cigarette back into the pack, close the journal, and whisper the word on the cover. Breathe. This time, it doesn’t sound fake.
The city exhales with me.
Part 2 – The Stranger’s Window
The next night I tell myself I won’t go up to the rooftop. I’ll just stay in my room like a normal human, scroll mindlessly until my brain gets bored and shuts itself off. But by 2:15 AM, my walls start closing in. The ceiling feels lower, the air heavier. It’s like being trapped in an elevator that refuses to move.
So I climb the stairs again. Five flights. The metal railing is cold, the kind that leaves faint impressions on your skin if you grip it too tight. I think about how many footsteps these stairs have collected—neighbors, delivery guys, kids running races, drunks stumbling home. Each step a memory that doesn’t belong to me.
When I reach the rooftop, the night air hits different. It’s colder, sharper. The city below hums in neon, red brake lights weaving like veins through a concrete body. I sit down in my usual spot, knees up, journal out. But this time, no cat. No Aarav either. Just me and the rectangle of sky.
Except tonight, there’s something new.
Across the street, one floor below rooftop level, a window glows. I’ve seen it before, but it was always just another anonymous square of light. Tonight, I notice someone inside. A figure moving slowly, pacing maybe. At first I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, just the outline, the way shadows stretch across the room. Then they pause, turn toward the window. And I freeze, because it feels like they’re looking straight at me.
It’s ridiculous—we’re separated by glass, distance, anonymity. But the moment stretches. Me on this rooftop, them in that room, two insomniacs caught staring. I don’t move. They don’t either. For a second, it feels like the city peeled itself open and showed me a mirror.
Finally, they reach up and pull the curtains. Window darkens. Connection gone.
I laugh under my breath, a sharp exhale. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I’m so desperate for signs that I invent them in silhouettes. Still, I can’t shake the pulse of that moment.
The journal waits. I write: Sometimes the universe knocks without sound. Do you open?
Footsteps again. This time I don’t tense—I know it’s Aarav. His hoodie appears out of the dark, hair messy like he just rolled out of some half-dream. He nods at me but doesn’t sit right away. He walks to the edge, looks down at the city.
“You ever wonder how many people are awake right now?” he asks.
“More than we think,” I say. “Less than we need.”
He smirks at that, sits beside me. No sketchbook tonight. Just him and his hoodie and the silence he carries like armor.
I debate telling him about the stranger’s window. Then I do. The whole thing, the shadow, the staring, the curtain drop.
“You think it meant something?” I ask.
Aarav shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just tuned into frequencies most people ignore.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Means you see things. Not everything you see is real, but the act of seeing—it still matters.”
That’s the thing about Aarav. He talks like he’s quoting some underground philosophy book, but it’s always his own head. I like that.
We sit quiet again. Below us, someone revs a bike too loud, probably trying to prove existence through exhaust fumes. I picture the stranger behind the curtain, maybe annoyed by the same sound, maybe pacing their room again. I wonder what they wrote in their head about me.
The cat returns, tail like a paintbrush, eyes reflecting green fire. She jumps on Aarav’s lap this time, settles instantly. Traitor. He chuckles, scratches behind her ear. “She only chooses chaos,” he says.
I watch them, then blurt: “Do you think everyone’s just pretending, like me with the cigarette?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes out his lighter, flicks it open, then closed. Flame, dark. Flame, dark. He hands it to me.
“Pretend if you want,” he says. “But at least hold the fire.”
I take the lighter, feel its warmth from his hand. I flick it open. The flame dances in the wind, small but stubborn. For a moment, the rooftop feels holy, like we’re monks guarding some fragile truth. Then the wind kills it, and it’s gone.
We both laugh, too loud for the hour. Somewhere, a dog barks in protest.
The laughter fades, but the warmth lingers. Not from the lighter—from the fact that someone else was here to laugh with me.
Later, after Aarav leaves, I stay behind. I keep staring at the stranger’s window, even though the curtain’s still drawn. I want them to return, to prove I wasn’t just inventing ghosts. But they don’t. And slowly, the city drowns me in its usual blur.
When I finally climb down, I pass Aarav’s door. Light seeps out from under it, faint yellow. I almost knock. Almost. Instead, I keep walking. Some distances aren’t meant to be closed yet.
Back in my room, I replay the rooftop in my head. The flame. The laughter. The stranger’s shadow. It all feels like threads of something bigger, though I can’t name it. My journal waits on the desk, word “breathe” shining fake gold. I open to a fresh page.
Tonight the sky wasn’t empty. It looked back.
I don’t know what part of me wrote that. But it feels true.
And truth, even in fragments, is enough to keep me alive another night.
Part 3 – The Noise Inside
Morning arrives like a thief. No gentle light, no soft awakening—just sunlight slamming through my curtainless window and alarms screaming from other people’s phones. I haven’t slept. The rooftop replayed itself all night: Aarav’s flame, the laughter, the stranger’s shadow. Every time I closed my eyes, the rectangle of sky burned brighter.
By noon, my body feels both heavy and electric. Coffee doesn’t help. Music doesn’t help. The city outside is too awake, too loud, and every honk feels personal. I shove my headphones on, volume up, and head out anyway.
The streets are a mess of rickshaws, scooters, people yelling into phones, people yelling just to yell. But there’s a rhythm in the chaos if you squint hard enough—like every shop shutter and neon sign is a drumbeat. I try to match my steps to it. Left foot, right foot, don’t fall apart.
I end up in a café I’ve never entered before. It smells of espresso and burnt ambition. Students with laptops hunch over assignments. A girl with green hair sketches in a notebook. A guy in a suit stares at stocks on his screen like the numbers are flirting with him.
I order black coffee, no sugar, and sit in a corner. I take out my journal, open to the last page where I wrote: Tonight the sky wasn’t empty. It looked back. The words seem both dramatic and insufficient.
I want to scratch them out, but instead I keep staring at them until the waitress interrupts with my cup. She glances at the journal. “You write poems or something?”
“Or something,” I mutter.
She smiles, not unkindly, and leaves. For a second, I wonder what she’d write about me if our roles were reversed. Probably girl with dark circles, hiding behind ink.
The coffee burns down my throat. It doesn’t taste good, but it forces my pulse to match the city’s. And maybe that’s enough.
I look out the café window. Across the street, tall buildings loom, their glass facades reflecting everything but themselves. I can’t help scanning for the stranger’s window, even though I know it’s blocks away from here. My brain feels stuck on repeat, chasing shadows that probably don’t matter.
A notification buzzes. Aarav. Just two words: Rooftop tonight?
I don’t reply. I don’t want him to think I’m waiting. But the message sits in my chest like a heartbeat.
That night, I climb again. Five flights. Same railing. Same peeling paint. The rooftop greets me like an old confession booth.
This time Aarav’s already there. He’s lying on his back, arms behind his head, eyes on the slice of sky. He doesn’t move when I sit down. Just says, “You ever think about how stars are basically dead ghosts, and we worship them anyway?”
“Comforting,” I say.
“Maybe that’s the point,” he replies.
Silence folds around us. The cat doesn’t show. Maybe she’s found someone more interesting. I look across at the stranger’s window. Curtains still closed. No movement. It feels like a door slammed before I even knocked.
“Do you believe in signs?” I ask suddenly.
Aarav tilts his head, squints at me. “Depends. Signs from where?”
“Universe. God. Whatever.”
He thinks for a long moment. “I believe in accidents. We’re the ones who turn them into signs.”
I don’t know whether to agree or hate that answer. Before I can decide, he pulls out his sketchbook. He flips to a fresh page, pencil poised. “Stay still.”
“What? Why?”
“Just stay still.”
So I do. I sit there, awkward, feeling his eyes on me but not directly. More like he’s watching the outline of me, the way my shadow bends. The city hums below. Somewhere a siren wails. And all the while, his pencil scratches across paper.
Finally he turns the book. It’s me—or something like me. My shape, rooftop behind, sky rectangle above. But in the sketch, my eyes aren’t tired. They’re wide, sharp, almost fierce.
“That’s not me,” I say.
“That’s the version you don’t see,” he answers.
The words hit like a punch. I look away quickly, at the stranger’s window, at anything but him. But when I glance back, he’s already erasing parts of the drawing, smudging shadows, muttering to himself.
“I’m not brave like that,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
“You don’t have to be,” he says, without looking up. “Brave isn’t the point. Awake is.”
We let the night sink in after that. He keeps sketching. I keep pretending the stranger’s window matters. Together we orbit silence like two planets refusing to collide.
When I finally leave, the stairs feel longer. Every step down echoes with Aarav’s words: Brave isn’t the point. Awake is.
Back in my room, I can’t sit still. The journal page calls me, but I don’t want to write. Writing feels like pinning butterflies—pretty, but dead. Instead, I pace. I play music too loud. I stare at my reflection until it blurs.
Then, almost without thinking, I grab my jacket and head out.
The city at 1 AM is both dangerous and alive. Auto drivers smoke by parked rickshaws, stray dogs guard garbage piles, couples argue outside bars. I keep walking, block after block, until I end up across from the building with the stranger’s window.
I stare up. Curtains closed. No shadow, no sign. Just another anonymous square of dark. I don’t know what I expected. A signal? A wave? Proof that last night wasn’t in my head?
The streetlight buzzes overhead, flickering. I feel stupid, exposed, like a character in a movie no one’s watching. I almost laugh at myself.
Then—movement. The curtain shifts slightly. Just enough for me to catch a glimpse. A hand, pale against the dark. A hand pulling fabric back.
For a second, I swear I see an eye. Watching. Not hostile, not welcoming—just present. Then the curtain drops again.
My breath sticks in my throat. My chest feels like it’s holding thunder.
I whisper to the night, “Who are you?”
Of course, no answer.
But walking back, every step feels different. Not lighter, not heavier—just sharper, like I’ve stepped onto a path I didn’t know existed until now.
When I reach my room, I finally write in the journal: The city isn’t asleep. It’s watching back.
I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying. Maybe both.
The next morning, my head feels like a room with too many radios tuned to different stations. I wake up late, skip breakfast, ignore messages piling on my phone. Half of them are from people who think they still know me. I don’t reply.
Instead, I stare at the journal page where I scrawled last night’s line: The city isn’t asleep. It’s watching back. It looks ridiculous in daylight. Dramatic, like the caption to an aesthetic Instagram post. And yet, the more I look at it, the more I believe it. Because I didn’t imagine that eye. I know what I saw.
By evening, I cave. I climb back to the rooftop earlier than usual, before the city quiets. The sky still holds traces of sunset—orange leaking into purple, purple melting into blue. The rooftops look softer in twilight, less threatening.
Aarav is already there, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil dancing. He glances up as I arrive. “You came early.”
“Couldn’t sit in my room anymore.”
He nods like he understands. With Aarav, silence doesn’t need apology. He keeps drawing, lines scratching, erasing, scratching again.
I lean against the parapet, eyes searching for the stranger’s window. Curtains closed, as always. A square of stubborn darkness. My chest tightens with frustration.
“Who are you really staring at every night?” Aarav asks suddenly.
My head snaps toward him. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always looking across, not up. Like you’re waiting for someone.”
I want to deny it, but my throat burns with the lie. So I shrug instead. “Maybe I am.”
He doesn’t press. Just goes back to sketching, as if he’d only thrown a pebble in water to watch the ripples.
But the question lingers. Why do I care about a stranger behind a curtain? Why does their presence feel heavier than anyone else’s? Maybe because they’re not asking me for anything. Not love, not answers, not versions of myself I can’t live up to. Just…existence.
The cat arrives, leaping gracefully onto the parapet. Her tail flicks once, twice. Aarav greets her with a smile, scratches her chin. I offer my hand, but she ignores me. Story of my life.
“Do you ever think people are mirrors?” I ask suddenly.
Aarav pauses. “Mirrors?”
“Like…some people reflect back the version of yourself you’re terrified of. Some show the version you want. Some show what you could be, if you weren’t so messed up.”
He studies me for a long second, then closes the sketchbook. “And which one am I?”
The question punches harder than I expect. I look away, at the rectangle of sky. My voice drops. “I don’t know yet.”
He doesn’t answer. For once, he lets the silence stay raw, not padded. The air feels heavy with words unsaid.
I glance at the stranger’s window again. And this time—movement. The curtain shifts, faint but undeniable. My breath catches. Aarav notices. “There,” I whisper, pointing.
He follows my gaze. But by the time his eyes land, the curtain has stilled. The square is dark again.
“You saw something?” he asks.
“Yes. Someone’s there.”
Aarav’s face is unreadable. “Or maybe you just want someone to be there.”
Anger flares in my chest. “I know what I saw.”
He holds my stare for a beat, then shrugs. “Okay.” He doesn’t argue, doesn’t mock me. Just says okay in a way that feels heavier than disbelief.
The rooftop air grows colder. The cat disappears again, as if even she can’t handle the tension. I hug my knees, feeling both exposed and unseen.
Finally, Aarav speaks, softer. “Sometimes our minds project shapes into darkness. Doesn’t make them less real, though. Sometimes the things we invent reveal more truth than what’s actually there.”
I don’t know if he’s comforting me or dismissing me. Maybe both. But the words sink deep.
We don’t stay long after that. He packs up, says goodnight without looking at me. I linger, staring at the stranger’s window until my eyes ache. No sign. No shadow. Just glass and curtain.
Back in my room, I can’t sleep. The noise inside is louder than the traffic outside. I keep replaying Aarav’s words: Doesn’t make them less real. What does that even mean? If I invent someone, do they exist just because I need them to?
At 3 AM, I give up and head out again. Not to the rooftop this time. To the street below the stranger’s building.
The night air smells of rain on concrete, though the ground is dry. A streetlight flickers overhead. The building looms above me, windows like blind eyes. I tilt my head, searching for the one with the curtain. There it is—fifth floor, third from the right. Dark.
I stand there too long, like a thief planning a robbery. I imagine walking in, climbing the stairs, knocking on that door. What would I even say? Hi, I’ve been watching your window like a creep. Want to tell me your life story?
Ridiculous. I laugh softly at myself. But the laugh dies quickly. Because just then—the curtain moves again. Slowly, deliberately.
And this time, no mistake: a figure steps into view. A man, I think. Tall, thin, face half-shadowed. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t hide. He just stands there, staring down at me.
My heart races so hard it hurts. I can’t look away. For a few seconds, it feels like the whole city has gone silent, like every sound has been swallowed so that this moment can echo louder.
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, the curtain closes. Darkness again.
I stumble back, chest heaving. My brain screams go home, but my feet feel glued to the pavement. It takes everything to finally walk away.
When I reach my building, I don’t climb to my room. I go straight to the rooftop instead. The sky rectangle looks the same as always—trapped between towers. But now it feels different. He was real. I saw him.
I open the journal with shaking hands. Write fast, almost unreadable: The mirror looked back tonight.
The following afternoon, Aarav knocks on my door. I almost don’t answer. But curiosity wins.
He steps in, glances around at the mess—clothes on the chair, books stacked like failed towers, coffee cups everywhere. He doesn’t comment. He just sits on the floor, sketchbook in hand.
“I believe you,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “About what?”
“The window. The person. Whoever you think you saw. I believe you.”
Something in my chest loosens, like a knot untied. “Why?”
“Because you’ve never stared at anything the way you stare at that window. And no one looks that hard at nothing.”
For a moment, I want to tell him everything. The eye, the figure, the silence. But instead I just nod.
He opens the sketchbook, flips to a fresh page. “Then let’s find out who they are.”
And just like that, the noise inside quiets—for now.
Part 5 – The Searchlight
Aarav’s words echo for hours after he leaves: Then let’s find out who they are. The idea should terrify me. Instead, it ignites something—a flicker I can’t ignore.
By the time night slides in, I’m restless. My journal’s open on the desk, blank page waiting, but no words come. Just lines. Circles. Shapes that make no sense. My body vibrates with a kind of static, like the city has plugged me into its socket.
When I climb to the rooftop, Aarav is already there, sitting cross-legged with his sketchbook closed. He looks up as if he’s been waiting. Maybe he has.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Chase ghosts.”
“I’m not sure of anything,” I admit. “But I need to know.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
We sit in silence, waiting for the stranger’s window. Tonight, the curtain is still. No figure, no sign. Just an ordinary square of darkness. My chest aches with disappointment.
“Maybe it was a one-time thing,” I say, voice tight.
“Or maybe he’s waiting for you to move first,” Aarav replies.
I frown. “How?”
He digs into his hoodie pocket, pulls out a small flashlight. It’s old, scratched, but functional. He flicks it on, then off. “Signal him.”
I laugh nervously. “What am I, in some Cold War spy movie?”
“Maybe. Or maybe this is how you tell the city you’re awake.”
He presses the flashlight into my hand. The metal is warm from his touch. My palms sweat instantly.
I point it at the rooftop floor, flick it on, then off. Once. Twice. A pause. Nothing.
Then, across the street, the curtain shifts.
My breath stops. Slowly, the window glows faint as a lamp switches on. And there he is—the figure, clearer now. Definitely a man. Tall, shoulders narrow, face half-lit. He doesn’t flinch at the light. Doesn’t move away. He just stands there, staring back.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
Aarav leans closer, his voice steady. “Now he knows you see him.”
I want to run. I want to scream. Instead, I flick the light again—two short flashes, one long. No code, just desperation.
The man tilts his head, almost curious. Then, unbelievably, he raises his hand. Not a wave. Just an acknowledgment.
My knees nearly give out. Aarav grips my shoulder, grounding me.
After what feels like hours but can’t be more than seconds, the curtain falls shut. Darkness again.
I collapse against the parapet, heart hammering like a drumline. “He answered. He actually—”
“I saw,” Aarav says. His voice isn’t surprised, just calm, like this was inevitable.
I clutch the flashlight like it’s a relic. “What now?”
He closes his sketchbook, tucks it under his arm. “Now we wait.”
The days blur after that. I go through the motions—classes, errands, conversations that feel fake. My mind is always on the rooftop. On the window. On the man who stared back.
I start timing my nights. Midnight. One. Two. Every hour, I check the rooftop. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes the faintest glow behind the curtain, but no figure. Each time he doesn’t appear, my chest feels heavier. Each time he does, it’s like the universe drops a stone into still water.
Aarav is always there. Sometimes sketching, sometimes silent. He doesn’t ask why I’m obsessed. Maybe he already knows.
One night, when the stranger doesn’t show, I snap. “What if he’s not real? What if I’m imagining everything?”
Aarav doesn’t look up from his sketch. “Then your imagination is braver than most people’s reality.”
His calm infuriates me. “You don’t get it. I need him to be real.”
Finally he meets my eyes. “And what will you do if he is?”
The question slices deeper than I expect. I have no answer.
On the fifth night, the man returns. Not just a silhouette this time. The lamp inside his room is brighter, casting his features clearer. Pale skin. Dark hair. Eyes I can’t fully see, but I feel them lock onto mine.
I raise the flashlight. This time, my hand is steady. I flick twice.
To my shock, he flicks his own light back. A desk lamp, maybe. A slow rhythm: on, off, on.
A signal.
My stomach flips. He’s not just watching—he’s communicating.
Aarav murmurs, “He wants you to keep going.”
So I do. A pattern emerges. I flash once. He flashes back twice. I hold the light steady. He mirrors me.
It’s nonsense, but it’s everything. A conversation without words. Proof that I’m not alone in my insomnia, not alone in my searching.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, his light goes out. Curtain drawn. Silence restored.
But the rooftop hums with a new electricity. My skin buzzes. My chest feels full of stars.
I turn to Aarav, breathless. “He’s real. He’s really real.”
Aarav studies me, expression unreadable. “I believe you,” he says again.
Later, lying in my bed, I can’t sleep. My body is too alive, like every nerve has been rewired. I replay the flashes, the rhythm, the moment his hand lifted the lamp.
But under the excitement, something darker simmers. Questions. Who is he? Why is he watching me too? What does he want?
And why do I want him to want anything at all?
I open the journal, scrawl in messy ink: The city speaks in light. And I’ve answered back.
The next day, Aarav corners me outside my door. He looks more serious than usual, sketchbook tucked under his arm like a shield.
“You know this could get dangerous, right?” he says.
“Dangerous how?”
“You’re projecting your entire existence onto a stranger you’ve never met. That’s a lot of power to give someone.”
I bristle. “He’s not just someone.”
“Maybe not. But don’t forget—mirrors can break.”
I want to argue, but the truth in his tone stills me. He’s not trying to stop me. He’s warning me.
That night, I return to the rooftop anyway. Of course I do.
The sky rectangle looks the same. But now it feels alive, like it’s holding a secret just for me.
The flashlight waits in my pocket. My pulse races with it.
When the curtain shifts, my breath catches.
The game begins again.
Part 6 – The Flicker Code
The rooftop has stopped feeling like an escape and started feeling like an altar. Every night, I climb the five flights with the same pulse in my chest—the pulse of expectation, of ritual. My footsteps echo like prayers. The flashlight in my pocket feels heavier than it should, like some relic charged with power.
Aarav waits most nights, sketchbook in hand, hood pulled up against the wind. He says less and less, but he still shows up. Maybe he’s afraid of what I’ll do without him. Or maybe he’s curious too, though he’ll never admit it.
The first flicker always comes around two in the morning. Tonight, I sit cross-legged, flashlight balanced on my knee, waiting. The rectangle of sky is smeared with smog, but my eyes are fixed on the stranger’s window.
And then—it happens. The curtain shifts, a lamp clicks on. His silhouette appears, sharp against the glow.
My breath catches, like it always does.
I flash once. He answers with one.
I flash twice. He answers twice.
The rhythm is immediate, seamless, like we’ve been practicing. A private language of light.
Aarav mutters, “You’re going to burn yourself in this.”
I ignore him. Because the man does something new—he pauses, then flashes three quick bursts. A pattern. Intentional.
I freeze. This isn’t mirroring anymore. He’s speaking.
I fumble the flashlight, panic rising. What do I reply? What does three mean?
Aarav leans in. “Answer him. Any way you want. It doesn’t have to make sense.”
I swallow hard, then flick back: one long, one short.
For a beat, nothing. Then—he repeats it back.
The connection slams into me like a storm. My chest feels too small for my heart.
Aarav sighs. “Congratulations. You’ve invented Morse chaos.”
But it doesn’t feel like chaos. It feels like order, like purpose. Two souls who’ve never spoken carving language out of night.
We keep flashing for minutes that feel like hours. No meaning, no translation. Just rhythm, just existence. Until finally, he stops. Curtain closes. Darkness again.
I collapse against the parapet, dizzy with adrenaline. “Did you see that? We made contact.”
Aarav’s expression is unreadable. “Yeah. I saw.”
The next day, I drift through life half-present. My body moves—shower, classes, errands—but my mind is stuck on the rooftop, replaying every flicker. Every pause. Every moment when the stranger and I breathed in sync.
I dream about lights when I nap. Flash, flash, silence. Flash, silence, flash. The rhythms feel carved into my skull.
At dinner, my phone buzzes with messages from people I don’t care about. I ignore them. But one stands out—Aarav: Don’t go up alone tonight.
I type back: Why?
His reply takes a long time. Finally: Because obsession looks like devotion until it eats you alive.
I stare at the words. Then I put the phone face down. I don’t answer.
That night, I climb anyway. Of course I do.
Aarav isn’t there. The rooftop feels wider without him, colder. But my chest still buzzes with hunger.
I wait. Minutes stretch like rubber bands. Then, the lamp flicks on.
I nearly choke on relief.
This time, he doesn’t start with a mirror. He goes straight to three flashes. Fast, deliberate.
I reply: two long, one short.
He repeats it back, exactly.
I grin in the dark, giddy. We’ve built a loop now, a ritual of response.
But then—something changes. He switches patterns. Four quick bursts. A pause. Then one long.
I stare, heart pounding. Is this a message? Is he testing me?
I try to reply, fumbling, uncertain. Three shorts, one long. My hand shakes.
He flickers back something entirely different. Erratic, urgent.
The exchange speeds up. Lights blur in my eyes. It stops feeling like a game. It feels like a code. A code I don’t know how to read.
I flash nonsense back, desperate. My hand aches from gripping the flashlight too hard.
Finally, after what feels like forever, his lamp clicks off. Curtain closes.
I sit there trembling, chest hollow. The silence feels brutal, like being abandoned mid-sentence.
When I finally stumble down the stairs, the flashlight still burns in my palm though it’s off.
The following evening, Aarav finds me before I can escape upstairs. He leans against my doorframe, arms crossed.
“You went alone,” he says flatly.
I don’t reply.
“You look wrecked,” he adds.
“I’m fine.”
He narrows his eyes. “No, you’re not. You look like someone who just stared too long into a mirror and didn’t like what stared back.”
His words stab. I shove past him, muttering, “You don’t understand.”
He grabs my wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop me. “Then make me understand.”
I meet his gaze, throat raw. “He’s trying to tell me something.”
Aarav’s expression softens, but only slightly. “Or maybe you’re trying to tell yourself something, and he’s just convenient.”
The thought rattles me, but I shake it off. “You didn’t see last night. It wasn’t random. It was…something.”
He lets go of my wrist, sighs. “Fine. But if you’re going to keep chasing this, don’t do it without me.”
I don’t answer. But when night comes, he’s already waiting on the rooftop.
The stranger appears again, like clockwork. Curtain shifts, lamp glows. Tonight, Aarav holds the flashlight.
“You watch,” he tells me. “I’ll answer.”
I don’t like it. The idea of him standing between me and the connection feels like theft. But I let him.
The man flashes three times. Aarav replies once, steady.
The man pauses, then flashes back something longer. Aarav matches it calmly, without panic.
Watching them trade light, I feel like I’m being erased from my own ritual. My chest aches with jealousy I can’t admit.
Finally, the man cuts the lamp. Curtain closed.
Aarav lowers the flashlight, exhales. “You see? Just patterns. That’s all it is.”
“No,” I snap. “It’s more than that. I can feel it.”
He looks at me like he’s searching for someone inside me he can’t find anymore. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
I turn away, throat burning.
That night, I don’t write in the journal. I can’t. Words feel too small.
Instead, I dream of light. Endless flickers, racing faster and faster until they become a solid beam that blinds me. And behind the beam, a voice I can’t hear whispers my name.
When I wake, my hands still ache from gripping the flashlight too tight.
And for the first time, I wonder if Aarav’s right.
Am I chasing him—the stranger? Or am I chasing something inside myself that I’m too afraid to face?
The question lingers like smoke.
Part 7 – When the Light Burns
The rooftop doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It used to be my sanctuary, the one place where silence outweighed the city’s noise. Now it feels like a stage. Every time I step onto the cracked tiles, I feel eyes on me—his eyes, invisible but constant.
Aarav comes less now. Some nights he doesn’t show at all. When he does, he sketches in silence, rarely looking up. I think he’s angry with me, though he’d never say it outright. Aarav doesn’t explode; he withdraws. He erases himself from the room until you realize too late he was the only anchor holding you steady.
Tonight, I’m alone. My flashlight is heavy in my pocket, my palms sweating before I even touch it. I wait, heart pacing faster than the city below.
The curtain stirs. The lamp glows. He’s there.
My chest floods with relief so sharp it’s almost pain.
I flash once. He answers.
Flash, flash. He mirrors.
But tonight, he doesn’t stop at games. The rhythm changes, faster, more complex. Four quick bursts. A pause. Then five.
It feels like a code, but one I’ll never break. Still, I can’t stop. I mimic, then invent my own pattern—long, short, long. He copies me back.
We spiral into frenzy. Light against light, silence filled with pulse. The air feels electric, like the rooftop has become a live wire.
Then suddenly, his lamp holds steady. Not flicker—just burn. A solid beam.
I freeze. My heart slams. What does it mean? A warning? A call? An answer?
I flick my own light back, holding it. My hand shakes, but I don’t drop it. For a few eternal seconds, we face each other in unwavering beams, bound by brightness across the dark.
Then his lamp clicks off. Curtain falls. Gone.
I’m left breathless, trembling, staring at my own hand like it belongs to someone else.
The next day, Aarav corners me outside the stairwell. His sketchbook is tucked under his arm, but he doesn’t open it.
“You’re not eating,” he says. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks for the poetry.”
“I’m serious.” His voice has an edge I rarely hear. “You’re fading.”
I push past him, but he follows. “Do you even know what you’re chasing?”
“Yes,” I snap. “Connection.”
“Connection to what? To who? You don’t even know his name.”
“I don’t need a name.”
“You need something real.”
I whirl on him, anger blazing. “And what’s real, Aarav? Classes I hate? Conversations that mean nothing? People who scroll past your soul like it’s background noise? At least this—” I jab my finger toward the invisible rooftop above us—“feels alive.”
He stares at me, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen. “Or maybe it feels alive because you’re slowly killing yourself on it.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. Instead, I walk away.
That night, I don’t wait for Aarav. I climb alone. The rooftop greets me like a confession booth. The sky rectangle looms above, a slit of emptiness.
And then—the lamp.
He’s there, waiting.
I raise the flashlight instantly, desperate. Flash, flash, long. He responds with a blur of bursts. My brain can’t keep up, but my heart doesn’t care. We’re beyond patterns now. It’s madness, it’s music, it’s prayer.
At one point, he flickers so fast it feels like strobe lights, the rooftop spinning in my vision. My knees nearly buckle. I flash back nonsense, desperate to hold him, to hold anything.
And then—dark. Curtain shut.
I collapse against the parapet, chest heaving, sweat soaking my back. I feel like I’ve run miles though I haven’t moved.
For the first time, fear creeps in. What if Aarav’s right? What if this isn’t connection but consumption?
But even that fear can’t outweigh the hunger.
The following evening, Aarav shows up at my door again. He doesn’t ask permission. He just walks in, drops his sketchbook on my desk.
“I drew something,” he says.
I flip it open. My throat tightens. It’s me, sitting on the rooftop. But in his version, the flashlight doesn’t glow soft. It burns like fire, consuming my hands, my face, my body. The sky rectangle above me is blackened, scorched.
I slam the book shut. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No. I’m being honest.” His voice cracks. “I don’t want to watch you disappear.”
Something inside me shakes, but I bury it. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it,” he pleads. “What are you seeing up there that you don’t see here—with me?”
The words stab. I can’t answer. Because part of me knows the truth: Aarav is real, solid, here. But maybe that’s why I keep chasing the stranger. Because real feels heavier than I can hold.
“I can’t stop,” I whisper.
Aarav closes his eyes, as if he expected that. “Then I can’t stay.”
When he leaves, the room feels colder than any rooftop ever has.
That night, I climb again. Alone.
The lamp waits for me. The curtain glows.
But without Aarav beside me, the exchange feels different. Empty and full at the same time.
We flicker back and forth, faster, brighter, until my hand aches, until my eyes blur. I feel tears burning, though I don’t know if they’re from exhaustion or revelation.
At one point, he holds the light steady again. A solid beam.
This time, I can’t match it. My flashlight sputters weak, dying.
I drop it, chest shattering.
For the first time, I feel small, powerless.
And in that darkness, one thought carves itself into me like a blade: Maybe this isn’t about him at all. Maybe it’s about the void I’ve been filling with strangers because I’m too afraid to face it empty.
The rooftop spins. My knees hit the ground.
The lamp across the street blinks one last time. Then silence. Curtain.
Gone.
I stay on the rooftop until dawn, clutching the dead flashlight, staring at the rectangle of sky until it bleeds into daylight.
For the first time, I don’t write in the journal. I can’t.
Because I don’t know if I’m writing for myself anymore—or for the eyes across the street that may not even exist.
Part 8 – Splinters
Days pass like fractured glass—sharp edges, broken reflections. I move through the world, but I don’t belong to it anymore. The city blares and shouts and sells itself, but all I hear are the echoes of light. Flash. Pause. Burn.
Aarav hasn’t spoken to me since the sketchbook fight. His absence feels heavier than his presence ever did. When he was around, at least I had someone to tether me, someone to remind me the ground exists. Without him, it’s just me and the rooftop.
And the window. Always the window.
I try to distract myself. Coffee shops, classes, half-hearted conversations with people who think small talk is salvation. But every moment away from the rooftop feels counterfeit. I don’t want coffee. I don’t want chatter. I want the curtain to shift. I want the lamp to burn.
At night, I climb again. The rooftop greets me like a confession booth I can’t escape. My knees ache from the stairs, but my chest aches more from the hunger.
The lamp glows.
He’s there.
Relief floods so violently I almost collapse.
This time, he starts with a frenzy—short, sharp bursts, faster than ever before. My hand trembles as I match him, the flashlight stuttering like a heartbeat.
We trade light until my eyes blur, until the rooftop spins. At one point, he holds steady again, that burning beam, brighter than before. I try to mirror it, but my flashlight sputters weak, batteries dying.
I slam it against the parapet, desperate. The beam flares, then fades.
Across the street, the lamp cuts out. Curtain closed.
The silence is unbearable.
I scream into the night, voice tearing my throat. “Don’t leave me!”
But the city swallows my cry whole.
The next morning, I wander like a ghost. I pass Aarav in the stairwell. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even glance at me. Just keeps walking, sketchbook under his arm, hoodie pulled tight.
The rejection slices deep. But I can’t chase him. Not when the window calls louder.
By evening, I buy new batteries. My hands shake as I slide them into the flashlight, like a junkie loading a needle.
That night, the rooftop feels sharper. The air bites colder. My breath fogs in front of me as I wait.
Minutes stretch. Hours maybe. Nothing. The window stays dark.
I feel madness bubbling. I flash anyway—once, twice, three times. Begging the night to answer.
Nothing.
My throat tightens. I keep flashing until my arm aches. Still nothing.
Finally, I collapse, forehead against the cold tiles. Tears blur my vision. “Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t disappear.”
But the city gives me nothing back.
The next day, I don’t leave my room. Curtains drawn, phone off, journal untouched. I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, hearing phantom flickers in the silence. My mind replays the beams, the rhythms, the steady burn.
Was it ever real? Or was it me, projecting need onto an empty window?
The thought gnaws until my skin feels raw.
By nightfall, I can’t take it. I climb again, barefoot, pulse wild.
The rooftop yawns open. The sky rectangle looks endless tonight, a slit of stars barely visible through smog.
I point the flashlight across, flick desperately. One. Two. Long. Short. My patterns blur into nonsense.
And then—impossibly—the lamp flicks on.
The curtain parts.
He’s there.
My knees nearly buckle with relief. “You came back,” I whisper, though he can’t hear.
We fall into rhythm again. Faster, harsher. His flashes feel urgent, almost angry. I try to match but stumble. My hand cramps. My chest hurts.
At one point, he holds steady again—beam burning, unwavering. But tonight, something in me cracks. Instead of holding mine steady, I drop the flashlight.
I sink to the tiles, sobbing. “What do you want from me?”
The lamp across flickers once. Twice. Then nothing.
Darkness swallows me.
When I finally stagger back inside, I find Aarav waiting outside my door. He looks exhausted, eyes ringed with shadows.
“You were up there again,” he says. Not a question.
I collapse against the wall. “He came back.”
Aarav’s jaw tightens. “Who?”
“The man. The light. He wants something from me.”
Aarav kneels, grips my shoulders. “Listen to yourself. You don’t know him. You don’t even know if he exists outside your head.”
“He does!” My voice cracks. “He’s the only thing that does.”
Aarav stares at me, eyes glassy. Then he whispers, “What about me?”
The question guts me. I can’t answer. I can’t meet his eyes.
Finally, he stands, shoulders slumping. “If you keep chasing him, you’ll lose everything else. Maybe that’s what you want.”
He walks away. This time, he doesn’t look back.
That night, I can’t climb. My body won’t move. My legs tremble, my chest burns. I sit on the floor of my room, flashlight clutched like a lifeline, staring at the word embossed on my journal: breathe.
But breathing feels impossible.
The window owns me now. The rooftop owns me.
Even in the silence, I feel him watching.
Even in darkness, I see the light.
Even in dreams, I hear the flicker code.
I am split, fractured, burned from the inside out.
And I don’t know if I want to be whole again.
When dawn finally leaks through, I drag myself to the rooftop one last time. My body shakes, my mind unraveling.
The city below is loud again—horns, footsteps, voices—but all I hear is static.
I raise the flashlight weakly, flick once. Twice. Nothing answers.
But I don’t move. I sit there until the sun climbs, until the rectangle of sky turns blinding blue.
And somewhere deep inside, a realization curls cold and sharp:
The window isn’t just across the street.
It’s inside me.
And I’m terrified of what’s looking back.
Part 9 – The Knock
The days bleed together like ink spilled on wet paper. I drift through them barely touching ground. My reflection in mirrors looks thinner, hollower, as though the window has stolen half of me and keeps it locked behind its glass.
Aarav has stopped knocking. No texts, no rooftop sketches. The absence is brutal, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. The only thing that matters is the window.
On the tenth night without a signal, I snap. I can’t stand the waiting anymore. The silence is worse than madness. My flashlight lies dead on the desk, batteries drained, useless. So I make a choice.
If the mountain won’t move, I’ll climb it.
The city feels alien as I walk through it at midnight. Every face looks blurred, every shadow menacing. I keep my hood up, hands shoved in pockets, heart pounding.
The stranger’s building looms darker than I imagined. Old concrete, peeling paint, balconies sagging with rust. It looks like every other building in this city, and yet I can’t stop shaking.
I find the door. It’s unlocked. My chest seizes. For a moment, I want to run. But then I think of all those nights—the lamp, the flickers, the beam that burned—and my feet move forward.
The stairwell smells of damp and cigarettes. The bulb overhead flickers like a dying star. I climb slowly, counting steps, breath sharp in my throat. First floor. Second. Third. Fourth.
Fifth.
I pause, palms sweating. The hallway stretches silent, doors closed, numbers faded. And there—third door on the right. The window I’ve stared at for weeks lives behind it.
My knees almost give way. I walk anyway.
I raise my fist. I knock.
The sound echoes too loud in the narrow hall. My heart crashes like a drumline.
For a long moment, nothing. Just silence.
Then—I hear footsteps. Slow. Approaching.
The door creaks open.
A man stands there.
He’s taller than I imagined, hair dark and messy, eyes shadowed but sharp. His skin is pale, his frame lean. He stares at me without speaking, as though he’s been expecting this moment all along.
I freeze. Words die in my throat.
Finally, he says, voice low, rough: “You came.”
The sound of it rips through me like lightning.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He studies me for a beat longer, then steps aside. The door widens.
“Come in.”
His apartment is dim, lit only by a single lamp—the same one I’ve seen flicker night after night. The walls are bare, paint peeling. The air smells faintly of dust and something metallic.
There’s almost nothing inside. A mattress on the floor. A desk with the lamp. Papers scattered. No photos. No signs of a life lived outside these walls.
He shuts the door behind me. The sound makes me flinch.
For a while, neither of us speaks. He just watches me, eyes unreadable.
“You’ve been watching me,” I finally say, my voice trembling.
“So have you,” he replies.
I swallow. “Why?”
His lips curve into something between a smile and a grimace. “Because you’re awake.”
The words drop like stones into my chest.
“What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer. He just walks to the desk, fingers brushing the lamp. “Most people sleep even when they’re standing. But not you. You saw me. You answered back.”
My breath shudders. “What are we doing?”
His eyes flick to mine. “Whatever you want.”
The room tilts. I don’t know if he’s offering salvation or destruction. Maybe both.
I whisper, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Names don’t matter.”
Something in me cracks. I laugh, shaky and raw. “Of course they don’t.”
For a long while, silence. His gaze pins me in place. I feel seen and hollowed all at once, like he’s peeling me apart without touching me.
Finally, I choke out: “I thought… I thought you were a sign.”
“Maybe I am,” he says simply.
My legs weaken. I drop into the chair by the desk, staring at the lamp. The bulb flickers faintly, like it’s listening.
“Why the lights? Why the signals?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “Because words are too heavy.”
The answer makes no sense. Yet it feels truer than anything I’ve heard in weeks.
I grip the edge of the desk. My chest burns with too many questions, too many nights of silence. But before I can ask more, the door rattles.
A sharp knock.
Both of us freeze.
The man’s eyes harden. He presses a finger to his lips. Silence.
The knock comes again, louder. My pulse spikes.
Then—“It’s me.” Aarav’s voice.
My stomach lurches.
The man by the lamp stares at me, expression unreadable. “You didn’t tell him.”
I shake my head, throat closing.
Aarav’s voice cuts through the door. “I know you’re in there. Open it.”
I look between the stranger and the door, torn in half. My heart slams so hard it hurts.
The man whispers, “Choose.”
The knock echoes again. Aarav’s voice, desperate now: “Please. Don’t do this alone.”
My body shakes. My hands clutch the dead flashlight in my pocket like it’s a weapon.
The stranger’s eyes bore into me, steady, merciless. “Choose,” he repeats.
And in that moment, I realize the rooftop was never about the signals.
It was always about this.
This choice.
Between the light that consumes me, and the anchor I keep pushing away.
The silence stretches, unbearable.
Then my hand moves.
The door handle rattles.
And I know whatever happens next will shatter everything.
Part 10 – The Door
The handle is cold beneath my palm, slick with sweat. Behind me, the stranger stands silent, his presence a shadow pressing against my spine. In front of me, Aarav’s voice fractures the air.
“Please. Don’t shut me out.”
The words split me in two. For weeks I’ve lived between buildings, between silences, between lights. Now the choice is here, a knife against my chest.
The stranger’s eyes bore into me. “Open it and you lose this.”
“This what?” I whisper.
“This space. This silence. This… freedom.”
But his freedom feels like chains too, a hunger that never ends.
Aarav knocks again, softer now. “I don’t care if you hate me. I just don’t want you to disappear.”
Something inside me cracks. The rooftop, the lights, the journal—all of it swirls in my head like broken glass. The stranger offered me a mirror. Aarav offers me a hand.
And suddenly I realize I don’t want mirrors anymore.
I turn the handle. The door opens.
Aarav stands there, hair messy, eyes bloodshot, sketchbook clutched against his chest like armor. Relief floods his face when he sees me, but then his gaze shifts past me to the stranger.
The air thickens.
The stranger doesn’t flinch. He just watches, lamp still glowing behind him. “So this is your anchor.”
Aarav’s jaw tightens. “And you’re her storm.”
For a moment, I think they’ll fight. But neither moves. They just stand there, two versions of gravity, pulling at me.
I step into the hallway, between them. My knees shake, but my voice comes out steady. “I can’t do this anymore.”
The stranger tilts his head. “Do what?”
“Burn.”
His eyes soften, almost pitying. “Then you’ll never wake.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ll go back to numb mornings and empty chatter. But maybe numb is safer than being consumed alive.
I close the door.
The sound echoes through me like a final heartbeat.
Aarav doesn’t speak at first. He just leads me down the stairs, hand brushing mine like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. My chest aches with every step, but the air feels clearer the further we get from that lamp-lit room.
When we reach the street, I breathe for the first time in weeks. The night smells like rain and smoke and fried food from a cart nearby. Ordinary smells. Beautiful in their ordinariness.
Aarav finally says, “You scared me.”
“I scared myself,” I admit.
We walk in silence, city lights buzzing above us. For the first time, the rectangle of sky doesn’t look trapped. It looks wide, endless.
Days pass. Slowly, the world rebuilds itself around me. I eat again. Sleep, sometimes. I even smile once, though it feels strange in my mouth.
The rooftop still calls, but less like an altar, more like a memory. I go up once, alone, just to see. The rectangle of sky waits, unchanged. Across the street, the curtain stays closed.
I lift the flashlight, then set it down.
I don’t need it anymore.
Instead, I open my journal. My pen trembles as I write: The city watched. I watched back. But in the end, I chose to live inside my own eyes.
The words don’t feel final, but they feel enough.
One evening, Aarav knocks on my door. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just slips inside and sits on the floor, sketchbook open.
“I drew something,” he says quietly.
I sit beside him. The page shows the rooftop, but different. Not dark, not burning. The sky rectangle is wide, spilling stars. And on the parapet sit two figures—me and him. Not touching, but close. Not trapped, but watching.
Tears blur my vision. “It’s beautiful.”
He shrugs. “It’s just lines.”
“No,” I say. “It’s more than that.”
For the first time in weeks, silence feels like peace, not hunger.
But sometimes, late at night, I still think about him—the stranger with the lamp. I wonder if he still stands by the window, waiting for flickers that will never come. I wonder if he was real at all, or just a reflection of my own darkness.
Maybe both.
But I don’t chase the answer anymore. Some questions are meant to stay open, like skylines without edges.
Instead, I let Aarav’s quiet fill the spaces the lights once burned.
Instead, I let myself breathe.
One night, weeks later, Aarav and I sit on the rooftop together. The cat curls between us, tail twitching. The city hums below, alive and ordinary.
“You think we’ll ever know who he was?” I ask.
Aarav shakes his head. “Does it matter?”
I look at the rectangle of sky, stars faint through smog. For the first time, it feels like enough.
“No,” I whisper. “It doesn’t.”
The silence stretches soft between us. Not empty. Not burning. Just silence.
And in that silence, I finally find what I’d been chasing all along.
Not the stranger. Not the lights.
Myself.
Later, flipping through my journal, I find the first page where I wrote: What if home isn’t a place, but a pause in the noise?
I smile. Because now, I know.
Home isn’t the rooftop.
It isn’t the window.
It isn’t even Aarav.
Home is the moment you choose not to burn.
And tonight, under the sky between buildings, I am home.
