Noah

The Rooftop Between Us The city never slept, but her apartment on the twelfth floor felt like a quiet corner of the world. Every evening, after work, you would climb up the narrow stairway that led to the rooftop garden. It wasn’t much—a few potted plants, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a view of the skyline that looked like it was dipped in gold when the sun set. You thought you were the only one who knew about it. Until one evening, you found Noah, your neighbor from 12B, already there—camera in hand, photographing the dusky sky. He smiled, a little awkwardly. “I didn’t think anyone else came up here.” From then on, you two met often. Sometimes by accident, sometimes not. You talked about everything and nothing—the noise from the street, your sketches, his photos, the strange cat that always wandered the fire escape. He made you laugh in ways you hadn’t realized you'd forgotten how to. As autumn came, the air turned crisp and their conversations deeper. There were pauses that lingered, silences that felt like the beginning of something unnamed. One night, when the city lights flickered like scattered stars, you climbed the stairs and found Noah waiting, a small lantern glowing beside him. “You’re early tonight,” you teased. He looked nervous—hands in his jacket pockets, voice softer than usual. “I didn’t want to miss you.” The hum of the city below faded into the background. For a moment, it felt as if the rooftop was its own universe. He took a step closer, the wind brushing through his hair.