The Man Across the Street

Written by Watson · Psychological Thriller

Word Count: ~730   |   Reading Time: 4 minutes

There was a man in the window across from mine. He appeared around dusk, always after I’d turned on the single lamp in my living room. Top floor, third window from the left. Sparse apartment, same as mine. Same gray walls. Same beige blinds, never fully drawn.

✦ Observation Phase

He mimicked me.

At first, I believed it was a trick of reflection — the glass, the lighting, architectural symmetry. But the angles were wrong. He raised his left hand when I raised my right. He leaned into his window just before I leaned into mine. I brushed my teeth at 9:14 p.m., and so did he — except his hand met his mouth a second sooner.

I tested him. I shifted routines. Danced in silence. Walked backward. Cooked breakfast at midnight. Always, he was a second ahead. A precise delay. Not imitation. Anticipation.

Eventually, I stopped sleeping. I documented everything: time, motion, hesitation. He never faltered. Once, I hurled a book across the room. He had already thrown his. Mine hit the wall. His shattered the window.

✦ Synchronization Breaks

Out of desperation, I called the building across the street. Asked for the resident. No one by that description. That apartment, they claimed, had been vacant for months. Maintenance issue. Water damage. No electricity.

I watched anyway. On the seventh day, he waved.

Not a reflection. Not a copy. He waved before I even moved. He knew I would raise my hand.

I stopped waving. Stopped moving. Just watched.

And yet, he still did everything I was going to do.

I boarded my windows.
Then smashed every reflective surface.
Stayed in the dark, as if that could undo the rhythm. Still, I could feel him — that presence, gentle and assured, carrying out my routines before I had the chance to decide on them.

I began writing this as a record. Proof. A testimony. But as I reached the final paragraphs, I looked up and saw that my screen was already filled in. The man across the street was typing. Word for word. Before I did.

So I stopped.

And he didn’t.

He’s still writing. Right now.

That should be impossible. Unless… I never existed.

It’s just a theory — but a clean one.

If you’re reading this, tell me: which window are you looking through?

And what did you do… just before I thought to ask?

Explore liminality in urban spaces — the eerie tension of places caught between memory and meaning.

Explore more recovered entries in the [Archives].