I sit on my balcony, every morning at the same time. The air is soft, still cool from the early light creeping over the rooftops. My coffee steams quietly. I hear the wind in the trees, and somewhere behind, crickets chirp and frogs call.

Across from me, on the other balcony, she sits. Also every morning. Almost to the minute. From seven to ten. Then she stands up, walks back into her bungalow, and disappears from my view. No words between us. No glance. No gesture. Just this quiet repetition, day after day.

I don't know her name. I don't know her voice. I've never heard a story about her. And yet she's there. In my field. In my awareness. And I feel how something within me resonates. Like a delicate thread stretched between us, without anyone ever pulling it.

Sometimes I wonder what she thinks when she sees me. If she sees me. If she notices that I notice her. I don't ask this out loud. These are questions that drift in me like mist. Questions without direction, without expectation. They're simply there.

I try nothing. I want to change nothing. I sit. I breathe. I feel my heart, steady in its rhythm. I look into the distance, sometimes toward her, but without intent. Without demand. Perhaps that is the whole art: presence without grasping.

On some days I feel waves inside. Small movements. A wish that appears and fades again. An image that forms and dissolves. A touch that only happens within. I observe it all. I allow it. I hold on to nothing. I push nothing away.

Her absence belongs to my silence. Her silence to my day. Just being.

I love without needing. I love without wanting. I love because it shows itself that way. And in this love, I am free.

Perhaps she will leave soon. Perhaps I will stay. Perhaps we will see each other again tomorrow, without seeing. Perhaps all we were ever meant to give each other was this: Two people. Two balconies. And the space between them, full of life.