The steam from my coffee curled lazily in the sunbeam, the warm aroma wrapping around me like a soft invitation. I sat at my desk, waiting for the clock to strike nine, my laptop screen a washed-out blur under the sharp brightness pouring through the window. My fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard — was I about to send a message or delete it? — but I let it linger. I liked sitting by the window, especially on mornings like this, when the world outside seemed sharper, more alive. Across the street, the mountain stood proud, bathed in sunlight so vivid it almost stung. The green leaves shimmered with a new intensity, the sky a breathtaking blue. After a few minutes, warmth crept along my right cheek, a slow heat like the gentle brush of fingertips. I reached up to lower the curtain — and then saw her. She moved through her room with a quiet grace, a figure framed perfectly in the golden rectangle of her window. I knew her, though only casually — a familiar face from my evening walks, from the soccer field where her husband played. But this was new. She wore a yellow salwar kameez that caught the sunlight, the fabric falling in soft folds that hinted at the curves beneath. It was different from the casual T-shirts and sweatshirts I’d always seen her in — this was something softer, more intimate. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the light and shimmering like black silk. She raised her hands, fingers threading through the strands, and for a moment I was caught, unable to look away. She bent forward, reaching toward the top shelf, the gentle arch of her back inviting my eyes to trace the lines of her body. The way the fabric stretched lightly across her waist, the subtle sway of her hips as she moved — it was a private dance, and I was an invisible audience. Shame flickered briefly. She was married. Her husband was my teammate. Yet the image burned bright behind my eyelids even after I drew the curtains closed. That night, I let my mind wander — imagining her in silk and lace, in the soft glow of candlelight, in a world where these stolen moments might stretch just a little longer. The next morning, coffee stronger, I sat with the curtains half-drawn. I told myself I’d be ready if she appeared — ready to pull the curtains shut at the slightest sign she caught me. Half an hour passed. Her window was open, curtains pushed aside, the light spilling freely into her room. Then, suddenly, she was there. She stood at the window, wearing loose pajamas that whispered against her skin, delicate and pale. The fabric moved gently with her breath, hiding the curves I had admired in her yellow salwar kameez — and in that moment, I found myself missing those soft folds and the way the sunlight had once traced her shape so clearly. Her face caught the sunlight — a soft glow that made her features almost otherworldly, her eyes sparkling with quiet warmth. For a moment, I thought she looked right at me, as if she could see the way my gaze traced the curve of her waist, the subtle rise and fall of her chest beneath the fabric. She smiled — a small, almost shy smile — and my heart clenched. I turned away quickly, cheeks burning, desperate to hide the heat I felt spreading inside. When I looked back, she was gone. The room suddenly felt colder, emptier without her presence. Yet the image lingered — her silhouette etched in sunlight, the quiet promise of something just out of reach. I knew then that this desire must remain a secret sanctuary, a story written in the shadows of my mind. It was best to lock her silhouette away, to keep this craving separate from the fragile reality of life. Let her live only in the pages I write, where longing is safe, and boundaries clear.