Dimly through the window...

I often wake up around 4 a.m. After going to the bathroom, I either lie back down or start writing. Thoughts rise up like spring water—endless and fresh. It’s the perfect time to pick one and shape it into a piece of writing.

Before picking up my pen, I turn on a YouTube video called “Walking at Home.” The instructor talks nonstop, like a rattling cart, so I turn the volume down. I follow along with the light movements, good for early mornings, but my eyes naturally wander to the window.

From my corner unit, I can see the north building across from me. Through one of the windows, I sometimes see a woman showering. Her clear silhouette slowly becomes blurred behind the steam. When she leans forward to scrub the bathtub afterward, the pose reminds me of a Renoir painting—his famous nudes come to life. When her bathroom light turns off, my eyes linger for a moment before I step away from the window.

On warm days, a woman in the west-facing building opens her window and showers. Afterward, she stands by the window, topless, letting the sunlight hit her chest. She looks like a character in an Edward Hopper painting—bathed in light, lost in thought. I, too, want to stand in the sun like her, but I can’t quite do it. Instead, I pace around my room in a bikini.

Back in art school, I sketched countless croquis—quick poses from nude models, changing every minute. Maybe that’s why seeing naked bodies doesn’t shock me. What really grabs my attention is something else: the kitchen scene in the apartment directly across from mine.

There, an Asian man moves quickly, preparing dinner. He opens and closes the fridge, stirs things at the stove, bends and straightens, moving back and forth. Once he finishes setting the table, a woman appears. They sit and eat together. The man sits facing the kitchen—like I do—and gets up often, probably to clean up. They sometimes stand side by side at the sink. Then the lights go out. The lively scene disappears, like life itself has paused.

The man, always wearing a neat black T-shirt, looks sharp and focused. I can’t see his face clearly, so I imagine the face of someone I once had a crush on—he used to wear black turtlenecks. The woman, who comes to the table in floral pajamas, is plump. In my mind, she has the face of a friend I don’t like. Unlike me, she never seems to go near the kitchen—maybe that’s why I secretly envy her.

One day, they put up a small black curtain over part of their kitchen window. Did they notice me watching? Still, I find myself glancing over out of habit, slipping into another round of daydreams as I make my own dinner.