The Floor Below...

An acoustic anatomy of isolation: the raw story of two strangers connected through the pipes of a quiet building, where one's magnificent grief becomes the only cure for the other's total loneliness.

March 20, 2020

Here it is! It’s starting again… the moment I hear the first few notes of that song, I know for certain: she’s crying again. I imagine her bathroom on the floor below mine, and her, curled up in the bathtub while the stream of the shower washes over her, blending with her tears. Between the verses, her sobbing can be heard so clearly. What is she hurting so deeply for? Did he leave her? Was he bad to her, so she was the one who left him? No, I have never met her, but for several evenings now, I have sat with her—in the bathroom directly above hers—listening to this song, the exact same track, multiple times a night. Yesterday, for instance, she didn't cry. I thought perhaps they had made up, and out of respect, I didn't go into the bathroom. I endured the silence until morning. I brewed myself some coffee, opened the terrace door to let the freshness wake me up, and I heard it—I heard her crying even before the song began.

​I lay down on the freezing tiles of my bathroom floor and pressed my ear against the drain. I didn't care if it was dirty; I desperately wanted to feel her. Her sadness fills my loneliness. No, I am not glad that she is crying, but I feel that I need to be there, right by her side. She is fragile and gentle; I know that a fourth listening of this one, identical song would completely destroy her, which is why she has never managed to endure it more than three times.

​I thought about accidentally finding myself right outside her entrance tomorrow morning at 07:15, just as she leaves her apartment. Her working hours start at eight, I believe. I assume. Is she a lawyer, or does she work in retail? Perhaps she is a preschool teacher, or works in a factory? I have never seen her, and yet, in that moment, I deeply longed to encounter her. I unlocked my door, stepped out into the hallway, and froze. I stood rooted to the spot for a few moments, then quickly spun around, ran back into my apartment, locked the door, and slid the deadbolt into place too—just in case; after all, who knows what pathways fear can find. No, I didn't dare to see her! I would have spoken terrible words to her. I would have begged her to stop crying over him; I would have told her he isn't worth it. And how could I possibly justify how I even know whether he is worthy of her or not? No, that isn't why I retreated, but because of it, I closed the terrace door, sat in the corner, and thought of her, while the lyrics of the song echoed through my head. I wanted to Google them and translate them, to see the immense sorrow within them that drains such heavy sobs from her—and I didn't even do that. I was so deeply in love with her soul that I didn't allow myself to sneak into it without her permission.

Since I've been a waitress my whole life, I feel like I must have a tip jar even here .