Through The Open Window

If there was one thing I hated about moving, it was the boxes. They multiplied like rabbits, spilling across our new living room in stacks labelled KITCHEN, BOOKS, MISCELLANEOUS. Mom insisted she knew where everything was, but when I opened a box marked BATHROOM SUPPLIES and found my camera lenses instead, I decided her labelling system was a cruel joke. The house itself wasn’t terrible white siding, pale blue shutters, and a porch that looked like it had once been charming. Now the swing tilted slightly, squeaking whenever the breeze pushed it. I wasn’t sure whether to love it or worry it would collapse beneath me. “Fresh start, Maya,” Mom said, balancing a box against her hip. “That’s what this place is. A fresh start before college.” I smiled, because that’s what she needed from me. But inside, I wasn’t so sure. That was when I noticed it. The window next door. Wide open, curtains shifting like restless ghosts. A soft hum drifted through, then a clear strum of guitar strings. My eyes lifted automatically and landed on him. He was perched on the edge of a desk, hunched slightly over the guitar in his lap. His hair was the kind of messy that either took hours to style or happened naturally I couldn’t decide which. Sunlight caught the edge of his jawline, and for half a second, he looked carved from shadows and music. Then his gaze flicked up. Straight at me. I froze, caught like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar. His lips curved into the smallest smirk. “You know,” he called, voice carrying across the humid air, “spying on strangers before you’ve even unpacked your boxes is kind of rude.” Blood rushed hot into my cheeks. “I wasn’t spying. I was” My eyes darted around wildly. “Admiring… the neighbourhood architecture.” One dark eyebrow arched. “Architecture.” His tone dripped disbelief. “So you’re impressed by peeling paint and crooked gutters?” I opened my mouth to respond, but Mom’s voice cut through. “Maya! Can you grab the other box of dishes?” I shot him a quick glare before ducking away from the window. When I glanced back, he was gone, like he’d never been there at all. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of cardboard and dust. I dragged boxes upstairs, filled dresser drawers half-heartedly, and kept hearing faint chords drifting through the air. He hadn’t closed his window. Every time I passed mine, I found myself slowing down, listening, wondering if he’d look up again. He didn’t. By the time the sun dipped low and the cicadas took over the soundtrack of the neighbourhood, I’d unpacked exactly three boxes and lost all motivation. Mom had gone to bed early, muttering something about her first day at the new office tomorrow. The house fell quiet, too quiet, like it hadn’t decided if we belonged here yet. I wandered into my half-unpacked room. The window was still open, letting in the heavy summer air. My bed creaked beneath me as I sat on the edge, staring out at the house next door. His room was dark now, curtains drawn. I leaned down to push aside a box at my feet one labelled KITCHEN. A stack of plates wobbled dangerously inside, and as I shifted them, something slipped free and fluttered to the floor. A photo. I bent to pick it up. My breath caught. It was a Polaroid. Grainy, slightly crooked, the kind of instant photo you couldn’t fake. And it wasn’t just any picture. It was my porch. My porch. Taken from almost the exact spot where I’d stood earlier, staring out into the neighbourhood. The porch light glowed faintly in the dusk, as if the moment had been captured just hours ago. But we hadn’t taken any photos today. And this box was from the kitchen it shouldn’t have had photos at all. The edges of the photo were warm, as if someone had been holding it recently. Goosebumps prickled across my arms. I glanced toward the window again. His curtains stayed shut, the glow of lamplight fading as if he’d just turned it off. Still, I couldn’t shake the sensation that I was being watched. I told myself I was imagining it. Someone had accidentally dropped an old photo into our moving boxes. That it was a coincidence. But as I slipped the Polaroid onto my nightstand, a sound floated through the open window. Soft. Gentle. Unmistakable. The strum of a guitar. My heart stuttered. It wasn’t just any tune. It was my tune the melody I’d been humming absentmindedly while unpacking earlier. A silly rhythm that didn’t even have words, something I thought no one else had heard. I pressed a hand to the sill, leaning closer. The night air wrapped around me, warm and thick, but beneath it ran a chill I couldn’t explain. I couldn’t see him. The curtains stayed drawn. But the music kept playing slower now, deliberate, almost like a message. I shut the window, more quickly than necessary. The latch clicked into place, muffling the sound, but I could still feel the faint echo of strings vibrating in my chest. Lying back on my bed, I stared at the ceiling. My mind refused to quiet. Every creak of the old house, every hum of cicadas outside, reminded me of the boy next door. The boy who smiled like he’d known me longer than a single afternoon. The boy who vanished before I could ask his name. The boy who might have left a photo of my porch where it shouldn’t have been. The boy who was playing my song. And deep down, where logic couldn’t quite smother it, one thought pulsed steady and sure. The boy next door had been expecting me.