001 The Secret Apartment

I don’t know when exactly it started. Maybe a year ago, maybe two. But at some point, I found myself standing in front of that door again. The door to the apartment no one knows about.

I still remember the day I signed the lease. It wasn’t planned. I just saw the listing—a small, one-bedroom place in an older building—and something in me said: Take it. I had no real reason. My life was fine. I had my job, my wife, my kids. But I took it anyway.

At first, I barely went there. Maybe once a month. Then, more often. I’d sit on the couch, look around, and leave. It felt… peaceful. Like a place outside of my real life. A place that didn’t expect anything from me.

Then, one evening, I brought something with me. A photograph. Just a small, framed picture. It was her. My ex-girlfriend. The one that got away, I guess. Or maybe the one I let slip away. I placed the picture on the nightstand and just sat there, staring at it. I don’t even know why.

And that became the ritual. Every time I went to the apartment, I took the picture out of the drawer, placed it on the nightstand, and just… existed in that space. Sometimes, I’d sit there for hours, doing nothing. Just remembering. Not in a sad way, not in a desperate way—just… remembering.

But of course, I couldn’t just disappear for hours without a reason. My wife would notice. My kids would ask. So, I needed a cover story.

I told them I had joined a book club. Thursday nights, every week. Nothing suspicious, just a group of guys reading classic novels, discussing philosophy. My wife teased me about it at first. Since when do you read books that don’t have to do with work? But she didn’t question it. And on Thursdays, after dinner, I’d leave.

In reality, I wasn’t discussing literature. I was unlocking the door to my hidden world, placing the picture on the nightstand, and stepping into the past. For two, maybe three hours, I could be someone else. Or maybe, I could just be the version of me that still remembered how things used to be.

And when I left, I always put the picture back in the drawer. I locked the door. And I walked away, back to the life where she didn’t exist anymore.

But I know I’ll return. I always do.