The Window

I’m sitting in my hotel room, one of those sleek, modern spaces perched high in a towering glass box. Across the way stands another high-rise—one of those hipster-style apartment buildings you only ever see on TV. The kind that feels curated for a certain kind of life, a certain kind of person. But here it is, right in front of me, full of real people living real lives.

It’s my third night here, and I’ve fallen into a quiet routine—watching, observing, letting their lives unfold like a silent film across the street. Most of them have their windows open, as if unaware or unbothered by the outside world peering in. Kids dart back and forth, their laughter visible even if I can’t hear it. Some families are gathered around dinner tables, leaning into conversation. Others sit alone, caught in the glow of their screens—one watching ESPN, another scrolling through their phone, lost in thought.

The building is close, close enough that I can make out the details of each little box. Some apartments are bursting with life, filled with art, books, and warmth—evidence of stories unfolding within. Others feel empty, almost transient, with nothing but a single hallway light casting a glow into the night.

I don’t know these people. I never will. But for a few nights, they’ve unknowingly welcomed me into their world, allowing me to witness their moments, big and small. And as I sit here, looking into their windows, I find myself thinking about my own little box—the one I call home. It’s full of life, love, and understanding, a space that holds me the way these apartments hold their people.

Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to this quiet act of observation. In their ordinary routines, I see something familiar, something comforting. And for now, as I sit here alone in this city, it’s enough.

Later,

Darrian Douglas