← All confessions · Forbidden 2026-10-09

The Wrong Balcony

Their balconies are a metre apart. Every night at ten, he steps out. So does she.

How it started

I moved into my flat in January, and the balcony next door is so close I could pass a cup of tea across. The first week I stepped out at ten for some air and the man next door was there too, leaning on the rail with a cigarette. We nodded. The next night, the same. And the next. Within a month it was a ritual. We never speak much, just a few words about the weather or the city lights, and he offers me a cigarette even though I don't really smoke. I take one anyway. I know his wife from the lift; she's lovely, and she told me, proudly, that he quit last year.

Then it happened

I'm not proud of it. Nothing has ever happened; nothing will. But every night at ten I find myself checking the clock and stepping outside, and he's always there. I think the ritual is the thing he can't give up. I think, maybe, I'm the reason he didn't quit. Last week I bought a little plant for the balcony and moved my chair inside.

The morning after

His wife has started stepping out onto the balcony at ten too. Nobody says anything. The three of them nod politely at each other like characters in a very tense French film. The cigarettes have mysteriously stopped.