Until We Share the Same Sky

David's apartment window faced a brick wall. No skyline. No sunset.

Just red stone and the echo of other people’s lives he couldn’t see. He told her it didn’t

bother him. He lied. Anna lived somewhere bright. Somewhere with open

skies and a kitchen that caught morning light just right. When they video-called, he angled the camera

carefully, pretending his world was larger than it felt. They spoke in future

tense. When you’re here. When this ends. When we’re finally us.

One night, she noticed. “You never show me your window,” she said gently.

He hesitated, then turned the phone. The brick wall filled the screen.