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+ ++ My apartment sits at the top of my building. The Penthouse, as my friends call it, looks out across the woods and over the bay. It’s a beautiful view — one I should probably pay more for. +
++ One of the things I love about the view is the building across the street. The regal exterior boasts large windows and wood panelling, an unobtrusive landmark compared to my own building’s concrete walls. Through those large windows come small glimpses into my neighbours’ lives. I don’t live close enough to see specific details, but having a short impression of someone’s life can be a beautiful thing, and it doesn’t take much to start imagining what I cannot see. +
++ For my overly creative mind, those glimpses turn into stories. True or not. +
++ There’s the girl baking something in the kitchen. She’s wearing headphones so she can speak to her mother about her sibling’s high school play without disturbing her roommates. She laughs as she scoops flour into a measuring cup, some of it dusting her hair. +
++ Two boys sit on a bed together, their hands almost touching as they lean back in a shared ecstasy. A loud rap song plays through a huge speaker, the room vibrating as they scream the lyrics. Both wear sunglasses despite the darkness outside, but they don’t seem to care about the irony of it all. +
++ A group of four friends sit around a dining table, laptops out in front of them. Crushed energy drink cans litter the tabletop, a fresh pack sitting in the kitchen waits to be opened. Their eyes are bloodshot as their fingers type away — nothing can distract them at this moment. Someone offers to order pizza. They all yell at him to shut up. +
++ A couple slow dances in the middle of a studio apartment. Her arms are on his neck, his hands on her waist. They sway back and forth to a jazz song, a prolonged note from a saxophone filling every space in the room besides the one between them. She rests her head on his shoulder and he breathes a sigh of relief. He finally feels safe. +
++ A boy stares out his window at the sky. Tears stain his cheeks as he watches the clouds drift by. He brings a can of beer to his lips, trying to still his quivering chin, but the attempt is futile. Someone knocks on his door. He curses and wipes at his eyes furiously. I can’t see who’s there. +
++ Each of these scenes takes me out of my own life and into someone else’s. I feel their joy, their pain, their stress and their love for one another. I rest my forehead on my own window, the glass chilly from the night air, wishing I could know more about their lives. I want to help them, comfort them, but I’m just a neighbour, an outsider looking in. A hopeful stranger. +
++ I wonder if they look into my window. What do they think? It’s hard to tell, but I hope they see what I do: a person who isn’t so different from them. +
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