I don’t live there anymore. But sometimes, on a Tuesday in October, I’ll walk two blocks out of my way just to look up at the ninth floor. The window is still there. The paint-chipped “89” is still visible if you squint.
A new person sits in a new chair now. I hope they don’t know how lucky they are. I hope they find out the hard way—the same way I did. window 89
Before I left that apartment (rent hike, of course), I took a photo through Window 89 one last time. The frame is slightly warped, the screen torn in the lower right corner. In the picture, a single cloud hangs over the water tower like a comma—a sentence unfinished. I don’t live there anymore
Do you have a window that changed you? A bus seat? A park bench? Drop it in the comments. I think we all have an 89 somewhere. Enjoyed this? Subscribe for more essays on small places and big feelings. The paint-chipped “89” is still visible if you squint
April 14, 2026