Sometimes, if he’s home, I’ll knock on the balcony doors and wait for him to let me in. If he’s out, I slide them open anyway and wander around inside, since he laughs and refuses whenever I tell him to lock them. And sometimes, when I want to see him so badly that my heart’s a bruised little lump but I’m too moody to make good company, I watch his apartment from the rooftops opposite, snacking on my food truck dinner and wishing I could be a normal person for once.
