Chapter 2: The Balcony

I tell myself I step out onto my balcony each morning for the fresh air. For the way the early light warms my skin, for the scent of damp earth clinging to my plants. That’s what I say, anyway.

But the truth?

It’s him.

Always him.

The balcony has become my stage, my excuse. My little lookout tower, as though tending to the flowers gives me permission to linger, to steal glimpses I’m not supposed to take.

This morning, he’s already there. Not on his balcony, but visible through the wide window in his living room. He’s folding something—a blanket maybe, or a shirt. I lean against the railing, heart already picking up speed, and I try to make my movements look casual. Like I just happen to be there. Like I’m not waiting, watching, wanting.

The way he moves is maddening. Slow, unhurried, as though time bends for him. His hands are strong, deliberate, smoothing the fabric with a kind of care that makes my chest ache. It’s only folding, I know that, but in my mind, the image twists into something else. I imagine those hands brushing against me with the same care, tracing the same deliberate lines.

Heat crawls up my neck.

I take a sip from my mug to ground myself, though the tea is far too hot. My lips burn, but I hardly notice. My eyes are locked on him, and every detail feels amplified—the slope of his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows as he concentrates, the curve of his mouth when he pauses, just for a moment.

I wonder what he would do if he looked up right now. If he caught me watching him so shamelessly. Would he smile? Would he laugh? Would he frown and pull the curtains shut, shutting me out for good?

The thought makes my stomach knot. I don’t want to lose this. These stolen moments are mine. They’re the pulse of my mornings, the secret rush that carries me through the quiet hours of the day.

I shift my weight, careful not to make too much noise, and brush my fingers over the leaves of my basil plant. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to keep from trembling as my imagination runs wild.

Because I can see it so clearly.

He looks up. His eyes meet mine across the gap. For a heartbeat, the world stills. Then he smiles—that easy, devastating smile and raises his hand in a casual wave. My chest would tighten, my lips would part, and I’d wave back, pretending I hadn’t been caught staring.

And maybe—just maybe he would step out onto his own balcony. Close the distance between us with words I can’t quite hear, but feel. Maybe he’d lean against his railing too, mirroring me, his body angled in a way that says I see you. I want to see you.

My mug trembles in my hand. The fantasy feels so real it almost hurts when I blink and find myself still alone.

I set the mug down carefully, afraid my shaking fingers will betray me. I grip the railing instead, the metal cool against my palms, grounding me as my thoughts spiral.

This isn’t normal. I know that. Normal people don’t craft entire worlds out of the curve of a man’s shoulders or the way sunlight touches his hair. Normal people don’t count the minutes until they can step outside, hoping for a glimpse, a shadow, a sound.

And yet, I can’t stop.

I don’t want to stop.

Every morning feels like a gift, and every gift feels like a thread tightening around me, pulling me closer, binding me to him.

He shifts again, setting the folded blanket aside, and stretches his arms above his head. My mouth goes dry. His shirt lifts just slightly, just enough to tease me with a glimpse of skin. I look away quickly, ashamed of the sharp rush that floods me, but it’s too late. The image is already burned into me.

I grip the railing harder, the metal biting into my palms.

I try to breathe, to calm the wild pounding of my heart, but it’s useless. He’s under my skin now. He’s there in the taste of my tea, in the brush of air against my face, in the quiet of my apartment when I retreat inside.

When he finally disappears from view, I stay rooted to the balcony. My eyes linger on the empty window, as though he might return if I wait long enough.

But he doesn’t.

I sigh, pressing my forehead to the cool railing. The world feels dimmer without him, quieter, as though something vital has been switched off.

And still, I smile.

Because I know tomorrow morning, I’ll be here again. Cup in hand, heart in my throat, waiting for him.

The balcony is mine. But he is the reason I breathe it in at all.