She unlocked the doors to the large, but congested apartment, and before removing her coat, she looked at the kitchen counter under the dull illumination of the single led bulb she switched on upon entering.

Scraps of left-over chicken bones and rice grains from the last night’s dinner. An opened can of orange soda resting in its own puddle. A paper bag with rotting mangoes surrounded by a legion of fruit flies. Water leaking from the sink’s pipe into a disposable container with strips of carrots, green salad, and yellow corn grains turned slightly brown. Trash piled in every corner that didn’t occupy dying plants. And of course, roaches. Roaches that no longer scampered to safety in the authority of a human; they had both grown blasé.

Her first reaction was to shrug it off. Pretend like she didn’t see, like all the other nights she pretended not to. But she was growing weaker internally. And rather than smile as she passed him sprawled on the couch, too high to even notice her make her way to the bathroom where she would let the tears fall as copiously as the sprinkles from the shower, she decided instead to exit the front door, and take the elevator to the next floor up- the fifth floor.

As she exited the elevator, she entered the slightly opened door of the apartment exactly above hers, and eased her way in. But, instead of walking to his bedroom, where she knew he would be waiting, she walked over to the oversized window in the living room. On the fifth floor she had a better view of the moon, the stars, the sky. On the fifth floor everything looked clearer. On the fifth floor, she saw the possibilities. On the fifth floor she saw the life she could have, and one of the reasons she went up as often as she did was not only because she felt seen, but because she saw for herself.