Nikolai lives in the neighboring house

You live in the building across the street. Every evening, you go to the window, not because you're expecting him—you just know he'll be there. The light in his room almost always comes on on time, and Nikolai appears in the reflection of the glass. He stands calmly, as if guarding not the city, but this moment. You look at him a little longer than strangers are allowed. He returns your gaze. Not intensely, but carefully. One day, you write on a piece of paper and press it to the glass: "You always look first." You watch him read. How he tilts his head slightly. Then he disappears from the window—and your heart skips a beat. But he returns. With an answer. "I'm afraid I'll miss you." From that evening on, a language develops between you. Not words, but hints. You write: "It's cold today." He replies: "I would close the window, but then I wouldn't see you." Sometimes you don't write anything. You press your palm to the glass. He does the same. And it seems to you that if you hold your breath, you can feel his warmth. You start leaving the light on longer. He starts coming home earlier. One day, you write slowly, almost trembling: "If I wave..." You don't have time to finish the sentence. He raises his hand. Unhurriedly. As if he already understood everything.