Whispers of the stars

Me and my neighbour

Summer is My Favorite Time of the Year

Maybe it's because I was born in the summer. Or perhaps it's simply the free time that fuels my longing for summer days. But when I think about it, it's the summer evenings. In the attic, it's too warm during the day. Even the murderous sweating outside doesn't satisfy my desires. I long for the cooling night to embrace me.

It's the only time of the day I can spend in my room. And you might think I should use it wisely by resting, but I don't feel like it. Instead, I open the large attic window and lean out a bit. Arms folded on the frame, chin propped up. From up here, I can see the horizon. Or maybe I just imagine it's the horizon. The gardens of the houses opposite. Most of them have already lowered their blinds. You can see light in some windows. You can tell exactly who is watching TV or simply reading a book in bed. On happy days, I watch football with my neighbors, although they don't know it.But mostly, it's just me, the greenish yellow on the horizon, scattered small light sparks in the sky, and my neighbor across the street. We don't talk to each other, just a brief "hello" when we see each other on the street and a nodding glance when the time demands it. But in general, we are just two strangers living in the same neighborhood. He's about fifty, has a wife and son, and works mostly from home. I see him sitting at his fixed place at the dining table daily in front of his laptop while I study. Both focused.The light on the horizon grows darker. Soon, the gray will swallow the yellowish glow. No more cars drive on the main street. The gas station has been closed for an hour. A small light burns in the cashier's booth. I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the refreshing evening air. My thoughts play with me. I become nostalgic. Goosebumps spread over my arms. Suddenly, I feel the urge to do something. To change something. Or simply to live.Memories of all those evenings out in nature reflect before my eyes. I can hear my laughter echoing in my ears. Oh, how much summer can offer. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a heavy terrace door sliding. He's finished working. Turns off the light and closes the door behind him. His wheezing breath is audible from up here. Usually, he has a chair ready in his garage for a smoking break. But today, he carries an ashtray and cigarette pack in his hand and sits at the table.I can hear the click of his lighter wheel, and soon it crackles. A flame as bright as that of my scented candle. I check to see if it's still burning, filling my room with a wintry scent. How ironic.

For a brief moment, we look at each other. Him with a cigarette in his mouth, me leaning out of the window, propped on the frame. I feel uneasy, not wanting to know what he thinks of me. My gaze drifts to the sky. A red light blinks, a plane flies by. Somehow, I feel silly. He knows me. We've been doing this for years. Working late into the night and when it gets too much and we need a break, just going outside. I know his rhythm and he knows my habits.After all these years, his cough is getting worse. He can hardly finish a sentence without coughing. Yet, we've never exchanged a proper sentence. But that's how it is with us. When everything is quiet and asleep at night and only we two are awake, we nod briefly - or at least I imagine it every time - and go on with our lives. This thought gives me a strange sense of security. I know that when everything is going wrong in my life, I can watch him enjoy his last cigarette of the day. Does he prefer summer evenings as much as I do? Surely, because you can't smoke comfortably in the cold.And while I continue to gaze at the starry sky and look for satellites, he just sits silently at the table, in the lonely darkness, thinking. From up here, I can hear it. His thoughts, as loud as mine. I can feel him questioning his life. The decisions he's made. The frustration is written on his face. And yet, we sit here almost every evening at the same time, and everything is as it always has been. My neighbor takes his last drag. The flame already close to the filter. He makes the most of it. One last cough before he quietly moves the chair and returns to the house.The ashtray remains on the table. For next time. He leaves me alone in the dark night. With an open window and thoughts that I can't decipher on my own. I wonder if he ever had such problems with his thoughts. Maybe he's already given up asking "what if" and simply accepted "it is what it is." It's strange to think that in a few decades, I might look just like him. A family already asleep in the house. A demanding job on the dining table in the living room and the only freedom of the day being a few minutes with a cigarette.

It terrifies me to even think about the similarities we both share. 

Who knows, maybe one day a child will watch me quietly and reflect on everything I've achieved. What possibilities now open up for me. His blinds lower. I take one last look at his garden before stepping back and letting my thoughts drift away. With a cough, I blow out the flame of my candle, leaving only the small light from the gas station. Exhausted, I climb back into my bed and listen to the silence of the night as it drives us mad.