Molly Carroll

Five o’clock rolls around with the sun already setting, a gentle reminder of the winter looming ahead. I finish loading the dishwasher and cleaning the countertops. Lighting a candle and tossing my book on the coffee table, I throw on one of my favorite playlists and wrap myself in a blanket to claim my favorite spot on the couch.

My favorite spot lies right in front of the only window we have in our living room – angled to give a perfect view of the sky overlooking the high rises of Rosslyn, the planes landing at Reagan, and the apartments across from ours that assemble the other half of our “U” shaped building.

Being on the tenth floor of eleven, most of the time all we can see from our window are the sporadically lit living rooms and kitchens, colored LED lights of the college boys (not in college anymore) living two floors below us, and images flashing across far away TV screens.

Today though, right before I open my book, I glance over and see two people in their living room across the way dancing and singing to music I couldn’t hear with a joy I could feel. Two apartments down and one to the left, I see a mother and son settling in on the couch with a bowl of popcorn gearing up to watch a movie together. On the ground level, I see the older couple, who give me the friendliest smiles when I see them, closing up their balcony and patio since the setting sun brings a drop in temperature. Somewhere in the middle, I see a woman setting up her Christmas tree with beautiful lights and bulb ornaments, turned to face the courtyard for all to see as they enter the building.

I’ve never lived in a high rise apartment building before, and shared a home with so many strangers. Maybe I sound crazy, but in this spot on the couch I become so acutely aware of the individuality of each person existing under the same roof as me. Hundreds of us are simultaneously curating our own space, sharing our time with loved ones, thinking different things, having different ideas, experiencing different challenges, enjoying our own form of bliss with just a wall or a floor between us. Their stories live only in my imagination. I will only come to know a fraction of them before I decide to establish a new home elsewhere with an entirely new group of strangers and that, to me, is strange, beautiful and comforting all at the same time.