Because of the music, she’d never started the antidepressants that the doctor had given her. More than once she’d picked them up in the packet, taken out the leaflet and read the list of possible side effects, then put them back down again. The doctor had told her the pills would rebalance the chemicals in her brain, but the idea of that was more frightening than the bad thoughts. The pills might dull her creativity, which she already considered to be tenuous and fleeting. They might take away the desire to compose, and with it the first truly beautiful thing she’d created. It was too much to risk.

The tap dripped on her toe, bringing her back to the room. Across the way, Yoga Man was standing at the window, his hand on the pull for the blind. Ruby stared straight into his eyes, as she usually did. He appeared to be looking at her, and she enjoyed the sensation, the fantasy that he knew she was watching and was performing it all for her. Then, he cupped his hand over his eyes to shade them and pressed his face to the window. His body language transformed from relaxed to agitated. He could see her. He turned, dashed across to the wall where his light switches were. Suddenly the big window was plunged into darkness.

Ruby scrambled off the drainer, fell heavily on her side, and lay there on the tiles, breathing hard. After a minute she crawled toward the bed-sitting room, avoiding the windows in case the man was still standing there in his darkened room, peering out, wondering who it was that was spying on him.

It was impossible to sleep. Instead, as the sun rose, she worked on her composition, adding a movement that became chaotically discordant, spiky, and unpleasant. Reaching the final few bars, she decided that she hated every bit of it. She crumpled up the new section and tossed it into the bin.

The following day, Ruby practiced the Sibelius past the point at which her fingers hurt. She didn’t eat all day, so by the time night fell, she was beyond hunger, enjoying the light feeling of nothing in her stomach, her mind a flighty thing jumping between ideas without fulling exploring any single one, forgetting what she’d been thinking about, not really caring either. At the usual time, in the darkness, she parted the curtains and peeked toward Yoga Man’s window, hoping to see him there, in yoga pants and nothing else, just like normal. It was planks day today; she loved to see the straightness of his body, his taut backside the only interruption to the perfect line from head to shoulder, to heel. Disappointment stung: the blinds were drawn. Her private show was over, all of her fun spoiled. The yoga would go on, but she wasn’t privy to it, not anymore. Ruby felt nothing but shame and loss.