Chapter 2: Patterns in the Night

Let me keep a record: the guy’s name is Derek. He’s a DoorDash driver, always hustling out at eight in the morning and dragging back home after ten at night.

I’d watch from my window, coffee mug in hand, as Derek zipped out of the lobby in his red DoorDash jacket, earbuds in, sometimes juggling his phone and a Monster energy drink. He had that determined walk—the kind you see on people with bills to pay and somewhere to be.

The woman is Natalie. She’s a manicurist at a local nail salon, starting at nine, finishing at eight, and taking four days off a month.

I memorized Natalie’s routine: the brisk walk to the curb, iced Starbucks in hand, nails always gleaming—even from afar you could see the fresh polish. Sometimes she’d pause to check her phone or adjust her ponytail, looking both tired and oddly hopeful. Watching her mornings unfold became a strange comfort.

Now it’s past eleven. Derek and Natalie are in their room, wrapped up in a storm of passion.

Their window’s cracked just a bit, the old AC unit grumbling. Every now and then, headlights sweep the room, splashing blue and red across their sheets. My heart races like I’m there with them, even though I’m just a shadow in my own living room, hidden in the dark. The smell of burnt popcorn from a neighbor’s microwave drifts through the vents, mixing with the sticky heat of a Chicago summer night.

About two minutes later, their passion burns out.

Natalie lies back, hair fanned across the pillow, Derek rolling away to stare at the ceiling. I wonder what they talk about in these late hours—if they trade secrets or just let the silence win. I put the telescope down, my fingers tingling with cold and guilt.

I silently set the telescope aside, letting memories drift back in. The city’s hush outside feels loaded, like the whole block is holding its breath. I lean against the glass, thinking about how I ended up here—half a stranger, half a witness, with a front-row seat to someone else’s life.

Two months ago, testing my new telescope, I’d stumbled on the couple across the street, tangled up in passion.

Back then, it felt innocent—a gadget, a harmless look at the world beyond mine. But once you see something you can’t unsee, it’s like tugging a thread you can’t stop pulling. I had no clue I was about to get pulled in way deeper than I meant.

In that moment, I couldn’t claim I wasn’t interested, so I watched a little longer.

It was like scrolling through a stranger’s Instagram at 2 a.m.—guilty curiosity, the kind you excuse with “just one more minute.” I told myself I was bored, just killing time, but my heart thudded every time I brought the lens up again.

But curiosity only lasted a few minutes before fading. My arm ached from holding the telescope, and if I kept watching and got caught—I’d be toast.

Still, there was that hit of adrenaline, knowing I might be caught. My hand cramped on the telescope, my apartment suddenly too quiet, every creak in the hallway sounding like footsteps coming for me. Even so, I almost convinced myself to walk away.

Just as I was about to stash the telescope, I saw the woman’s face, sharp and clear.

Her features snapped into focus—soft lips, dark eyes, a secretive smile. The way she looked, like she knew something no one else ever would, made my pulse skip. I forgot to breathe.

Every feature matched my ideal. She was, in every way, the perfect woman I’d ever dreamed of.

It was as if someone had plucked her out of my fantasies and set her across the street. I tried to tell myself it was just the light, or my lonely brain making things up. But the more I watched, the deeper I fell.

My hand froze, telescope halfway down. Ignoring my aching arm, I brought it back up to my eye.

I barely blinked, afraid to lose her. It felt like trespassing on something sacred, but the urge to keep looking was stronger than the guilt gnawing at me.

God, she was beautiful.

I whispered it to my empty apartment, my voice drowned out by the fridge’s hum. My chest felt both hollow and full.

Why couldn’t someone like her ever be with a guy like me?

The question stung, echoing between their world and mine, filling my apartment with a longing I couldn’t shake.