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The Girl Across the Window / Chapter 1: The First Glimpse
The Girl Across the Window

The Girl Across the Window

Author: Norma Fisher


Chapter 1: The First Glimpse

When I tried out my brand-new telescope, I never expected to stumble onto a secret show: a young couple had just moved into the apartment across from mine, and they clearly weren’t fans of closing their blinds. If I’d known what that first glimpse would cost me, I might’ve closed the blinds myself.

The first night I saw them, the city outside my window buzzed with that electric hum you only feel after midnight in downtown Chicago. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, bouncing off the brick and glass. The L rumbled in the distance, steady as a heartbeat. Their apartment—a warm rectangle of golden light—glowed like an open invitation in the darkness. It was the kind of scene that makes you hesitate, wondering if you should look away or let yourself look a little longer. I told myself it was just curiosity—who hasn’t peeked at a neighbor now and then?

By day, they were strangers. But after sunset, they became passionate and uninhibited, like the rest of the world had faded out. You could feel the contrast without a sound: daylight found them moving past each other, distant and preoccupied. But as soon as dusk swallowed the city, their shadows merged behind the blinds—bodies pressed close, laughter and longing dancing in silhouette. Watching them felt intrusive, even if it was just a fleeting glimpse.

At first, I wasn’t even interested. I was about to pack up the telescope when I caught a clear look at the woman’s face.

She leaned back in the lamplight, hair spilling over her bare shoulder, eyes half-closed in a way that belonged in a movie. My breath caught. A flush crept up my neck. I felt like a kid caught stealing candy, heart pounding with something that was half fear, half hunger. The telescope stopped feeling like a gadget and became a forbidden keyhole. I knew I should put it down, but I didn’t.

That was the moment I fell in love—and became the lone voyeur of the building across the street.

I never planned to be a creep. But sometimes obsession slips in—quiet as a moth brushing against glass.

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