I peer through a tiny hole I drilled with a small key and see him. He's naked, standing above the threshold demarcating the ensuite and the room, a can of beer in hand.

What is he thinking?

Standing astride, making sure he aims properly, his morning urine jets into the toilet as he swigs from the can of beer. His Adam's apple slides up and down.

The birds on the mango tree outside chirp noisily; the songs of hope. I wonder if he hears it.

The urine stops but he doesn't flush immediately, he continues staring at the tiles in front of him.

When I arrived at this apartment, climbing the stairs, he hurried passed me upstairs then downstairs, and then like someone who forgot something, he ran back up. I leaned on the rusted bannister when he scaled down again.
"It's okay to rest," he had said, "but unacceptable to stop!"

It would have been better if he relieved me of some luggage, maybe the bags hanging off my shoulders or one of the boxes flanking me.

He delicately held a pile of paper to his bosom. I thought he was a white-collar worker, a sectary who stayed up all night working for his boss. But, he was a writer.

I knew because that night, he threw a glass on the wall and his conversation went like this, "Rhika, I am tired! I can't continue writing all these stories if publishers keep rejecting my manuscript!" There was silence as if he was listening to Rhika on the other end of the line.

He had a girl over. His girlfriend? A prostitute? I wouldn't know. I only heard loud moans which I faded out by clutching a pillow over my ears.

The next day, I heard him lock his door, the prickliness in his movements; thudding up and down the stairs at least four times before he finally left the building. I moved to the north window and saw his small Mazda parked under the mango tree, the top dotted with bird poop, drive away.

I started drilling the hole in the thin wall separating our rooms. We already shared every thud, every moan, every conversation, and laughter.

He came back at night, dragging his feet. I imagined the loose tie around his neck, and partly tucked shirt. He didn't throw anything on the wall, neither did his female friend visit.

Before he came back the next day, I successfully drilled the hole. That night he wore a white exposing the hairs coating his legs. He perched at the edge of a desk that accommodated an open laptop, screen blank white.

A phone was pressed to his ear and he said, "I can't do this anymore," tears lodged in his throat. "I am done."

I saw a reflection of myself in those moments. I huddled tightly on my bed and cried. I drifted to sleep only to wake up and find him urinating and drinking beer.

He flushes the toilet, squeezes the empty can of beer, and throws it towards the bin by the door, but misses.

The chirping birds seem to multiply.

He moves to his desk and sits on his chair, facing the laptop. Cracking his fingers, he begins to type. I smile.

"It is okay to rest but unacceptable to stop. To stop is to fail!"