There is a row of windows in the building opposite of me to the left. I can see them from my bedroom. What sets them apart is that they are always lit, always. Through every night and every winter, I can see the light.

Now, I know the building to be a performing arts school. In the day, I hear music: the piano, the flute. Several flutes.

And so I think it natural to imagine a dancer: sweaty, driven, refining her moves in the night. A ballerina, so consumed with inspiration she cannot stop. An actor, sitting on the floor, desperate and depressed, partly because he’s in the character and partly because he cannot get into the role.

I hold on to my windowsill and rest my chin on its cold, white surface. I’m peeping out into the night, resting on my knees in my bed. My room is dark. They cannot see me and they do not know I exist. But I am here. 

And I can see them, the light, but what about the people? Do they exist? Does it matter? I never think of it.

Because they give me hope. That I am not the only one awake in the dark. That I am not alone.