Chapter 3: Addicted to the View

From then on, I was hooked on my secret habit.

Every night, blinds drawn tight, city lights blinking, I’d set up my telescope and slip into their lives. It became my ritual—a guilty pleasure I couldn’t shake, no matter how much I lectured myself.

To the world, I was a success—a science blogger with millions of fans. I was the guy who made viral videos explaining wormholes with pizza slices. But behind the scenes, I was unraveling.

Yet the shame was always there, coiled deep inside. Sometimes I’d catch my reflection in the glass—messy hair, wild eyes. My own face stared back from the window, pale and wild-eyed. I hated how alive I felt. I’d shut off the lights, press my palms to my eyes, and promise myself I’d stop. But every night, the urge won.

At the same time, I was addicted to the rush. Spying on other people’s lives brought a pleasure I couldn’t describe.

It was a high like nothing else—better than any retweet or YouTube milestone. The thrill of watching two strangers live out their secrets, the sense of knowing something no one else did. I knew it was wrong, but the pull was stronger than my conscience.

I didn’t understand why I had these urges, but that didn’t stop me from looking.

Every time I tried to rationalize it, I’d invent new excuses—boredom, loneliness, “research” for a blog post on privacy. In the end, it was just desire. Simple, relentless, and all-consuming.

I started calling the stunning woman Natalie, and the guy Derek.

I even scribbled their names in a notebook beside my keyboard, like giving them names made it less creepy. Natalie and Derek—like characters in a show only I got to watch. It made things feel more real.

Why those names? Probably because I’d been binging too many Netflix rom-coms lately.

Names like Natalie and Derek bounced around my brain like static. Maybe it made them feel like people I could bump into at the corner bodega.

To better watch their lives, I even changed habits I’d kept for years.

I stopped streaming late-night astronomy Q&As, started scheduling posts for afternoons. My whole routine shifted to revolve around my new obsession. It was subtle at first, but after a few weeks, even my friends started to notice I was off the grid after sunset.

I used to livestream at night. Now I did it at noon—just so I could peep at them after dark.

I joked to my followers that I was “embracing the early bird life,” but deep down, I knew I was lying. I started eating dinner earlier, going for nighttime walks just to be back in time to watch their window flicker on.

But desire is never satisfied. I was no exception.

The thrill faded faster each night. It was like eating your favorite food until you’re sick—but you still can’t stop. My hunger for more details, more glimpses, kept growing.

At first, just spying on Natalie through my telescope was enough to satisfy me.

Some nights, I’d just watch her read by the window, legs curled up, lips moving with the words of a paperback. I’d make up stories about what she was reading. It was pathetic, but comforting.

But soon, that wasn’t enough. Driven by desire, I started timing my outings to catch Natalie leaving the building.

I’d hang out at the Starbucks near her salon, hoping to catch a glimpse of her at lunch. I’d feel guilty—sweaty palms, racing heart, like a teenager with a crush. But that didn’t stop me.

That’s how I discovered she worked at a nail salon.

It was called ‘Polished’—a neon-lit spot wedged between a bodega and a laundromat. The window always decked out with pastel signs and Instagram promos. Watching her laugh with clients, head tilted back, made her seem even more real.

After two months, I’d mapped out their routine. But something strange caught my eye.

I tracked their work hours, grocery runs, even laundry days. It all seemed normal—until Derek’s weird meal-time habits.

At every mealtime, Derek would deliver food to Natalie.

He’d show up with a paper bag from Panda Express or Chipotle, always waiting at the curb. They never hugged, never lingered—just a quick handoff.

Their conversations were seconds long. Derek kept his helmet on, barely making eye contact. Natalie would thank him with a nod, nothing more. The whole thing felt strangely businesslike.

When Natalie’s coworkers asked about him, she’d always deny any connection.

I overheard her once, laughing off a question about the “cute DoorDash guy.” She was careful—almost too careful—to shut down rumors.

But anyone with eyes could see something between them.

There was a softness in her voice when she talked to him, a nervous energy that didn’t match her usual confidence. Sometimes I’d catch her watching him leave, gaze lingering.

After all, it’s impossible for the same DoorDash guy to always bring your takeout.

I chuckled, thinking even the laziest detective could connect those dots. Still, Natalie played it cool, brushing off every question.

Her adamant denial only deepened the mystery.

I started spinning theories in my head late into the night. Was she hiding something? Was he?

Curiosity gnawed at me. Countless possibilities flashed through my mind:

A secret affair. A forbidden love. Or maybe just a business relationship.

Maybe they were keeping things quiet to avoid drama. The more I wondered, the harder it was to sleep.

With all these questions, I started digging for answers.

I fell down Google rabbit holes, searching for signs of secret relationships or hidden marriages. I even checked city records, telling myself it was just for fun. But I was hooked.

Honestly, I felt like some creep in a bad Netflix doc, but also—somehow—like I had the upper hand.

I’d lean back in my office chair, hands behind my head, feeling like a puppet master. The irony was almost funny—me, a guy who could barely manage his own laundry, thinking he had someone else’s life figured out.

For some reason, spying on them made me feel superior—a twisted sense of being above it all.

There was comfort in knowing things no one else did. It was like mainlining someone else’s secrets, a temporary escape from my own.

Most nights, I’d laugh at how ridiculous I’d become. Yet every night, I’d set up the telescope again, stuck in the same loop of shame and satisfaction.

From what I saw, none of my theories seemed to fit.

They weren’t just secret lovers or coworkers with benefits—there was a deeper puzzle. No matter how long I watched, the answer stayed just out of reach.

First, there was never a third person in their home.

For weeks, it was always just Derek and Natalie, their routines like a sitcom rerun. No friends dropping by, no family visits—just the two of them, orbiting each other like planets stuck in the same lonely sky.

Second, their interactions didn’t match any other guess.

Even in private, their body language was off—sometimes distant, sometimes tender, always a little on edge. It was more complicated than a simple romance.

So why the secrecy?

I replayed every interaction, searching for clues in their glances, in the way Natalie bit her lip when she thought no one was watching. I couldn’t let it go.

I’d noticed something else: Derek was full of energy. Every night, they’d be passionate at least once, though it never lasted long.

There was a pattern—a restless urgency, like they were afraid of running out of time. Sometimes, Natalie would pull away first, staring out the window while Derek sat with his head in his hands.

More than once, I’d seen Natalie standing by the window, gazing out at the city with a melancholy look.

She’d stand there in her old sweatshirt, arms wrapped around herself, eyes lost in the skyline. It was the same look I’d seen in my own reflection—like she was searching for something just out of reach.

I didn’t know what she was thinking, but I guessed it had something to do with their daytime coldness toward each other.

Maybe she missed the person Derek was at night, or maybe she was just tired of pretending. Either way, her sadness lingered long after she left the window.

All of this only made me more curious.

It was like being stuck on the last page of a mystery novel, desperate for the ending. I couldn’t look away.

As a science blogger, my thirst for knowledge was real. When a mystery gnaws at you, you can’t help but want to solve it.

I started jotting notes in my phone, hoping some grand revelation would hit if I connected the dots. Curiosity burned hotter than guilt, and every detail only fed the fire.

I watched Natalie for ages, but got nowhere.

No matter how closely I watched, she never slipped up. It was maddening.

Since Natalie was a dead end, I shifted my focus to Derek.

Maybe he was the key. I started tracking his routines, hoping for a clue.

But there was a problem: as a delivery driver, Derek covered the whole city. If I followed him openly, he’d spot me right away.

Chicago’s not a place you can tail someone without being obvious. One wrong move and I’d end up as the neighborhood creep on TikTok.

But I wasn’t willing to give up.

The not-knowing gnawed at me, turning every detail into a conspiracy theory. I needed answers, no matter the risk.

After a lot of thought, I decided to check things out myself. As long as I was careful, I figured I’d be safe.

I pulled on my old Cubs cap, tucked my phone in my pocket, and promised myself I’d be invisible. In my head, it was just harmless curiosity—a little fieldwork for peace of mind.