Bird’s Eye View

Shelomi Domingo || Fall 2025

I see her first. 

Or maybe she sees me.

Fourteen floors up, barefoot on concrete, condo keys between my fingers, Manila split open beneath me, light bleeding through its cracks. I climb onto the ledge anyway. 

Rectangles of other people’s lives, stacked, glowing. I watch them. People in their boxes. Across from me, in the next high-rise, a window is open. Orange lamp light spills out. A girl sits inside, dark-haired, back straight, framed by the glow. 

She usually looks at nothing. 

Now she’s looking at me. 

I don’t move. 

I wait for her to pretend she didn’t see me. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, she raises her hand in a slow, deliberate wave. 

I let the moment stretch too long before I nod back. 

The first time I climbed onto the ledge, I wasn’t thinking about falling. 

I was thinking about distance. 

How small things looked from above. 

How flat. 

How people lived in rectangles of light, convinced they were alone. 

But I see them. 

I watch how they practice loneliness. 

How they rehearse leaving, forgetting, coming back. 

How they make up new selves, tuck them neatly inside four walls and call it home.

The girl in the window isn’t like that. 

She doesn’t do anything. Just sits by the glass, night after night, watching the world.

The next night, she holds up a piece of paper. 

I see you. Do you see him?

A stare. A joke? 

The setup is wrong. The punchline doesn’t land. 

I glance over my shoulder. Nothing. 

The room behind me is empty—just my laptop, the glow of the screen, the city’s reflection. I look back and she’s gone. 

I think I’ll remember this in the morning. 

Then, small things start changing. 

The glass in my sink is dirty. I don’t remember using it.

The printer is running out of ink. Notifications from the app. 

Can’t find my AirPods everywhere. 

My cat must’ve done the last one. It loves to kick stuff. Wakes me up sitting on my back. I tell myself I need sleep. 

But the next night, she’s back. 

She’s closer now. Pressed against the glass. Palms flat. Like she’s holding something back.

This time, she doesn’t hold up a sign. 

This time, she mouths the words. 

He’s behind you. 

I turn so fast I almost slip. 

The studio is silent. 

The light above checks us. The curtains don’t move. It doesn’t do that weird thing. Nothing is there.

I let out a slow breath and looked back at her. 

But she’s not in her window anymore. 

She’s inside my apartment. Wait, what? 

I don’t move. 

I don’t breathe.

The city outside is a smear of construction noises. 

Inside my apartment, she stands by my door. 

The lights blink and she raises her hand. 

I don’t remember moving. 

Even though I’m suddenly inside. 

The ledge is behind me. 

The window is shut. 

I blink. 

She blinks back. 

Up close, her face is wrong. 

Not wrong in an obvious way. Just off. Like something trying very hard. Hate that.

My throat is dry. 

“...How did you—” 

Her hand is still raised and moving a slow, dragging wave. 

But now, so is mine. 

I don’t remember raising it. 

I don’t remember moving at all. 

Oh. Oh. Now I get it. 

Wait. I should—nah, that’s not right. 

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on that ledge. 

I don’t know how many nights I’ve watched that window. 

I don’t know which side of the glass I’m on anymore. 

She waves. I wave. I don’t remember waving. 

I try to drop my hand. Huh. 

It doesn’t move. 

She smiles.

Not at me. 

At something behind me. I don’t turn around. Right. I can’t. 

I just keep waving.