Open Windows

It starts the day I choose to open my curtains. 

It seems silly, me regularly leaving them drawn, but with my second-floor room looking over the street, I never felt like risking neglecting to close them and then...changing clothes, or something. The other window looks over our side yard, leading to the house next to us, and after noticing the window right across from mine, I sure wasn’t going to risk a neighbor seeing me in my one private place.

Quarantine starts, however, and a week in I attempt to get ahold of my life. I do random chores, blindly seeking behaviors that a “together” person might engage in. I clean my room, organize my desk, begin actually folding my clothes, and eventually, I glance over at the delicate, lavender-colored curtains and step forward, grasping one in each hand and tearing them apart. 

I’ve forgotten how much light this lets into my room, flooding the gray and blue designs with gleaming streaks from the rising sun. I smile, moving over to the side window.

I open it, and he’s there. 

He appears to have been pulling apart his curtains at the same time. Instantly, I wonder if this is a dream. It makes sense; I’m cleaning my room and convincing myself it’s what will make me satisfied with my life. I’m not the type of person that finds themself staring at a teenage boy in the window across from them like this is some stereotypical romance novel. 

Yet...I am staring at a boy. Furthermore, it takes me so long to grasp the concept, I don’t notice him waving at first. It’s as his grin begins to fade and he lowers his arm that I flinch, hurriedly raising my own hand to return the gesture. His smile reappears, producing a glow of delight leaving my room even brighter. I smile too, looking up for just a moment to finish rearranging my curtains. When I gaze back at the window, the boy is gone. 

I bite my lip and turn around, grabbing the broom from where I’d rested it against my desk. I continue cleaning, wishing the boy had stayed a little longer.

That night, I remember to close my curtains; and the next morning, I remember to open them. I’m overwhelmingly grateful that I do when I see a note fastened to the boy’s window. A phone number is written in purple across a piece of notebook paper in large yet pleasantly neat handwriting. I stretch an arm to my left and grab my phone from my nightstand, quickly typing the number into a new contact. I enter mystery boy into the name. 

 I find my stomach twisting with nerves as my thumb hovers over the message button. He does want me to, doesn’t he? What if this is a prank? 

I hear a few muffled taps and I jump, my head snapping up to meet the boy’s eyes again. He tears the paper down, his heartwarmingly genuine smile there for me to marvel at. I move closer to the window, hitting the message button.

Hi, I send, and he glances down a moment later. He holds up his phone, reading it. His hands move, and my phone vibrates.

Hi.

I can’t help but peek at him again, and my lips inadvertently pull into a smile. His shoulders shake for a moment in a laugh, and he looks back down to type something else. I watch the typing bubble sit for a moment before replacing itself with a new message.

I’ve never seen you before. 

I bite my lip, avoiding looking back up because I know he’s watching for my reaction. I never open my curtains. 

I wait for a few seconds before looking up, catching him as he starts typing. He bites his lip too, his hair falling over his face as he gazes down.

What about school?

I go to the private school, I reply. The next time I look up, he’s leaning over and pulling his window open. I don’t hesitate in shoving my phone in the pocket of my sweatpants, unlocking and opening my window. I get down on my knees and rest my arms against the windowsill, the boy taking a similar stance.

“What’s your name?” he asks, raising his smooth-as-silk voice enough to be heard across the gap between us. My arms rub against the screen of the window, so I pull them back slightly. 

“Andi.” I tuck some loose hair behind my ear, watching his smile widen. 

“Ted.” 

I search for something to say, feeling so out of place at the moment; I have to remind myself by thinking, you are sitting by your window, talking to a boy. A kind, messy-haired, smiling boy. 

“Why did you decide to open your curtains?” he inquires, tilting his head to one side. 

I avert my eyes from him for a moment, holding my arms a little tighter around each other. “I’ve been cleaning my room and...I don’t know, I felt like I should start letting some non-artificial light in.”

“Quarantine self-reinvention, huh?”

I raise my eyebrows, letting out a surprised laugh. 

He dramatically rolls his eyes. “Hey, I’m doing it too. Why do you think my curtains are open now?” 

“Well...I’m glad I’m not the only one,” I say, unable to hold back a steadfast smile.

“When’s your healthy living plan gonna start? Maybe we can sync up jogging schedules,” he jokes. 

“Ah, I’ve already given up on trying to make something like that happen.” I shrug playfully. “Try to convince me if you’d like.”

This conversation marks the first of the boy I unapologetically fall in love with. Our practically instantaneous connection isn’t anything compared to the hours spent sitting at our windows. On the few colder, snowy days we have, we sit by closed windows and talk on the phone. Eventually, we start bringing blankets and hot chocolate on those scarce but beautiful last days of winter. When his parents would inevitably come in and tell him to stop talking to “window girl”, he’d just sit at his desk or in bed and continue our discussion on the phone. He speaks with me like he’s greeting an old friend from the start, making me feel recognized, understood. His comfort when I’m upset is so influential, I feel like he’s here, sitting in a chair beside me with his arm wrapped around my shoulders. 

It’s moments like that in which I realize just how much I do want him sitting in a chair beside me. 

With each passing day, we learn a little more about each other. He says he likes the way I tell stories so vividly, he’s able to not only see it but feel exactly what I’m feeling. I say I like the way his positivity shines so brightly it’s made what should be the worst experience in my life feel like a blessing. He opens my eyes to the possibilities something like a quarantine brings, but never forgets to acknowledge how lucky and privileged we are to have such good situations in an event this devastating. 

“Learn a new language with me,” he suggests a month into our self-isolation. I agree. 

“Write a book with me,” I propose a week later. His approving smile makes my heart soar.

“Let’s meet. In person,” he finally requests at the beginning of May. 

Those were the only words I dreaded. 

“We’re already in person.”

He laughs, resting his head on his hand. “Closer to each other. Not in separate houses”

“I can’t.”

“Your parents are strict?” he guesses, his smile faltering for the first time since I’ve known him. 

“Yes. Understandably,” I respond, giving him a look. 

“Oh, come on, Andi. I’m tired of this. Where is that ‘taking life into control’ girl?”

“Hey, I’m taking it into control in a safe way, not a ‘disobey your parents, risk getting someone sick in a global pandemic’ way.”

He pouts for a moment, but his lips curve up again in an instant and I know he’s joking. “Think about it.”

I do. I think about it a lot. I think about it so much, I fall asleep wondering what color his eyes are, how calloused his fingertips are from playing guitar, if his embrace is just as warm and comforting as his personality. I wake up wanting to see him just as much as he seems to want to see me. And in my dreams, I feel my undeniable love for him elbowing its way to the front of my mind as my heart melts at the possibility of him wanting more than this, too; more than sitting at an open window. 

I call him at one in the morning, and he responds in an instant. 

“Meet me in the side yard,” I whisper. He doesn’t say a word, hanging up. I slip out of bed and don’t bother changing out of my sweats and tee-shirt. I pull a pair of sneakers on and stealthily walk past my parents’ room, down the stairs, and out the sliding glass door at the back. I hold my breath as I tentatively walk around to the side yard, my heart racing. 

He’s there. Ted, standing ten feet away from me in pajamas, the moon reflecting off of his smooth skin in an eerie yet breathtaking way. 

I freeze for a moment, my breath catching in my throat. He bites his lip, holding his arms behind his back. For a few seconds, he looks down at his feet, showing a sign of nervousness for the first time.

“Hi,” I say. He glances up again, and I smile, shameless in how I continue to gaze at him. It’s somehow so much more satisfying seeing him without a window screen in the way; it’s real now, what I feel for him, not some imagined attraction. So I take a step forth just as he does, and another, and before I know it we stand just inches away. So close, I can feel his breath, and after another beat, his fingers reach out to touch my hand. Rough yet smooth, warm and electrifying all at once, he intertwines our fingers together. My eyes flicker down to look at them, just to remind myself that this is actually happening; we are existing together. 

“I think I knew you before this.”

He exhales a soft laugh, and I look up, studying each of the lines that carve up his face from his smile. “You did?” he asks. 

“I haven’t been to private school forever,” I admit. “I thought you were familiar, and at first I figured it was because you’re easier to talk to than anyone I’ve known before. But I remember you. We had English together in sixth grade.”

“Sixth grade,” he echoes, tilting his head to the side. His eyebrows furrow and his grin widens. “Wow. I guess there was a reason I felt the need to talk to you.”

I bite back a smile, looking back down to our hands. I tighten my grasp, tugging him a little closer. My heart keeps racing away like I’m about to jump off a cliff rather than finally get to hug someone I really like. 

“I think this was meant to be.”

“You believe in that?” I question, not looking up despite how strongly I feel his eyes on me. 

“More than anything. You’re one of those amazing things people are lucky to find in a moment of crisis.” 

My heart skips a beat. 

“I’m glad I opened my window,” I tell him. His other hand moves to touch my chin, gently guiding my eyes up to look at him. 

“Me too,” he murmurs. 

“Hi, Dad,” I greet, sitting down at the dining table for breakfast. My head is fuzzy and my heart is soaring from the last few talks Ted and I have had. It’s a week later, and we’ve snuck out every night in what feels like a dream that you never want to wake up from; or, in this case, return to sleep after. 

“Hi,” he responds, his back toward me as he faces the counter. When he turns around, a glass of water and a thermometer is held in his hands, and he starts toward the stairs. “I’ll be right back. Your mom isn’t feeling well today.”

My stomach sinks.

“Wait, what?” I exclaim, standing up. He doesn’t answer, jogging up the stairs to get to Mom. I put a hand to my chest, my mouth hanging open as fear floods through me, my heart racing in a far more dreadful way than it beats when I’m with Ted. I pull my phone out of my pocket, not seeing any texts from him after his good morning. I hastily type, can you call me? 

My phone rings seconds later. I pick it up and rush toward the back porch, stepping outside and all but slamming it behind me. 

“Are you sick?” I ask, my voice coming out panicked and desperate.

“What? No, why?”

“Is anyone in your family sick?”

“No. Is everything alright?”

I bite my lip, putting my free hand to my forehead as tears begin to prick at my eyes. “I don’t know,” I whisper weakly. 

“What’s wrong, A?” His voice has lowered.

“My mom is sick,” I choke out. “I don’t know if it’s COVID. My dad was going to check her temperature.”

“Did he?”

“He is right now.”

“Oh, A, we’re okay. Maybe she’s having allergies. Just go back to your family, see if she has a fever. We don’t know anything yet, okay?”

“Okay,” I mumble, reaching up to wipe a tear from my cheek.

“I’m here for you. You’re okay.”

“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about my family, about you,” I emphasize, holding my free arm against my chest. 

“Don’t you worry about me. Go, take care of your mom.”

I sniff.

“If she has it, we’ll get through this together, okay?”

I close my eyes. “Thank you, Ted.”

I go back inside, masking my tears before Dad comes back downstairs. He heads straight toward the sink, washing his hands. 

“Dad?” I whisper, and he sighs heavily. 

“She has a fever. A cough. She’s achy. We’re going to the doctor to get tested in a couple of hours.”

No.

“All of us?”

“All of us,” he confirms. He turns the sink off, turning around. “I told her our market was too crowded to risk going. Some people weren’t wearing masks. This was bound to happen.”

We get tested. I know what the outcome will be far before the results come back. 

We’re all positive, and naturally, Ted and I have kissed; we have kissed every night for the past week. If Dad and I aren’t showing symptoms yet, it’s unlikely his family would either.

We open our windows that night. He knows the moment he sees my face, and his breathtaking smile is gone in the blink of an eye.

I don’t say anything, so he doesn’t either. I avoid his eyes, but I know he’s watching me.

Ten minutes pass.

“I made you do it,” he says.

The tears I’ve tried so desperately to hold back all night free themselves at his words.

“No, you didn’t. I chose to, in the end. I put you at risk.”

“I pressured you. I made you feel like you weren’t the person you wanted to be just so I could hold you,” he explains, and I cover my face, resting my elbow on the windowsill. 

“I wanted to just as bad.”

“I don’t regret it,” he assures me. I glance up, and he tries to smile, but I know him well enough at this point that I understand how scared he is in this painfully fake display of positivity. His happiness came so easily up until this point. 

“You don’t have something that could make this harder on you, do you?” I ask, sniffling. 

“No. No preexisting conditions here,” he tells me. “What about you? I can’t have you feeling physically bad, too.”

“No.”

He sighs a little, pressing his hand up against the screen. I do the same, watching him look down as he thinks of something to say.

“We’ll do hourly check-ins, okay?” He shrugs. “We’ll be stuck in our rooms. Might as well sit here for a minute every now and then to see how the other is feeling. It won’t be bad, A, you’ll see.”

I nod a little, blinking the remaining moisture from my eyes. “Yeah.”

He’s right, somewhat. It doesn’t reach an unbearable point for me. I start showing symptoms the day before he does, and a few days later, neither of us can comfortably get through a sentence without erupting into coughing fits. It only takes four days for it to start easing up, feeling less like COVID, and more like a major cold. 

It doesn’t get easier on him, though. Another week passes, and he still has to text rather than speak. 

One more week, and when I text him, there’s no response. 

As quickly as my heart falls for him, it breaks for him. His parents aren’t home when I go knocking on the door. Their car is gone. 

The next day, I sit in the chair by the window, a blanket wrapped around me. My phone buzzes. I inhale, pulling it out to see his name staring up at me. 

I’m sorry, he sends. I feel nauseous.

I love you, I type, wishing this wasn’t the first time I admitted it. We’ll get through this together. I’ll open my window for you. 

It takes a few moments for him to respond as I pull the window open, letting in the approaching summer air. I wish for his to be sliding up across from me, as well. The phone buzzes.

My window is always open for you, Andi, he tells me. I love you too.