The window

She’ll come, change, dance for some time or will read a book, have her food and bring her diary out, scribble something and sleep.

Sometimes, she’ll look out while talking on the phone, sometimes she will talk till late, take her diary out later, write and sleep.
Sometimes her friends will be visiting,
They all will be dancing around, partying and enjoying, she’ll take her diary out later, write and sleep.
She’ll come home late someday, work stuff, tired, lie down for a while, bring her diary out, write and sleep.
There was a pattern.
The diary must be special to her, I used to think. Wondering what she must be writing daily, I always interpreted, did she write about her day, or her feelings for a certain boy, or stories, or is she a writer. 

One fine day, he came.
Someone she knew since long,
They danced together,
I saw them hugging for longer than usual.
They dined, laughed, watched movie, cuddled and slept.

She did not bring her diary out that day, she did not write,
Maybe he was the one she used to write to , 
Maybe she found her human diary,
Maybe her heart finally felt light.

Oh! how would I know? 
She’s just another person living in another building, I used to check out from my window.
She’s just an another ‘window story’ to me.

There was a pattern,
I used to sync my timings with her to read her, there was a pattern how we both used to do the same things on same timings without even her knowledge.

She broke the pattern and so will I,
Anyway, there’s a new pattern shifting in a new window, I mean a person is shifting in a new flat.
There is also a pattern hidden behind this by the way.