Through my window: my neighbor and his alcoholism…

I was looking out of this window, from this exact spot. The view hasn’t changed much over the years, though everything inside it has. I was looking at that same house right across from me, the one so close I sometimes feel like if I just stretched my hand a little longer, I could almost touch it. That house used to be quiet, not just in sound, but in spirit. A tired kind of home, lived-in but not fully alive. You could sense that it had gone through its share of difficult years, and that the people inside it were doing the same. The couple living there had once drifted apart, their lives shaped by something unspoken, but they had come back. Slowly, cautiously, they had begun to live together again.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. They didn’t throw loud celebrations or make visible declarations of reunion. But there was something about their presence that felt lighter than before. Even the house seemed to exhale a little. The children were back, the curtains were no longer shut tight, and sometimes I’d catch faint sounds of music or laughter floating across. I remember how that made me feel…this quiet relief that, somehow, they had chosen each other again.

One day I saw the couple outside, which was unusual. People don’t often come out together anymore, especially not for mundane chores. But they were out, doing something as basic as filling water jars from a neighbour’s tap. It’s a small thing, really, but in this country, even small things take effort. Gathering water isn’t like flipping a switch…it takes patience, planning, and coordination. And the way they did it…not hurried, not annoyed, told me more about them than words ever could. They moved with a kind of gentle rhythm, as if they had done this hundreds of times before, as if this shared effort was some form of reconciliation.

That’s when I saw them look at each other. Just for a few seconds, but something about it hit me hard, like I had accidentally walked into the middle of something private. Their eyes met in a way that stopped everything around them. I could feel it from across it…that brief, quiet glance carried more than words ever could. It was heavy with memory, fragile with hope. Even a person with a hardened heart would’ve felt something in that moment. There was no drama in their expression, but there was something unmistakably alive. As if all the years of separation, of tension and silence, had been softened by time. I could see the weariness on their faces, but also a kind of trust, a gentle smile. That look carried everything, the years behind them and the hope, however small, that maybe they could start over again. Their eyes said, “Maybe we made it through.”

That moment stayed with me. I wrote it down in my journal that same day. I rarely write down things like that, but something in me needed to hold onto it. It was the kind of thing that made me believe that there’s still some honesty left in this world. That people, after all their mistakes and failures, can still choose each other. That love doesn’t always come in grand gestures, but sometimes in a look exchanged over water jars. That even broken people, in a world like this, still get to try again.

Today, I’m looking out of the same window again. The house is still there, but it doesn’t feel the same. It’s aged rapidly. Cracks now run across its walls, like lines on a tired face. The weeds have grown tall and wild, curling up toward the roof as if they’re trying to pull the house down into the soil. My window is still clean, but the house across from it looks worn out, as though it has stopped asking to be seen.

The couple is no longer together. Again. They’ve separated, and from what I gather, it’s likely permanent this time. It’s strange…they fought for years to come back to each other, and for a while, it felt like they had done the impossible. But now that feeling is gone. What remains is a house that seems to carry the memory of something that was once beautiful and now feels distant, almost imagined.

The reason, from what I know, was alcohol. The man had returned to drinking. A slow slide back into it, not all at once, not with any warning. But as always, it was enough to pull everything apart. That drink, that one quiet poison, it latched onto him again, and this time it didn’t let go. I’ve come to understand that alcohol doesn’t simply enter the body. It enters the life. It reshapes everything…thought, mood, behaviour, love. It lingers, long after the bottle is empty.

Now I see him in the evenings, and it’s not just sad… it’s jarring. One night he cried out her name so loudly I thought something terrible had happened. Another night, he screamed at the gate, slurring things no one understood. And sometimes, he just sits there in complete silence, eyes wide open but seeing nothing. There’s something deeply unsettling in that silence, like even his own thoughts have abandoned him.

He’s thinner now. His back is more bent. His speech is slower, his thoughts seem tangled. The same eyes that once softened at the sight of his wife are now vacant, like he’s searching for something that isn’t there anymore. He lives alone. He’s in his late fifties, too frail to take on regular work. Yet somehow, he manages to get enough money to drink. Some neighbors bring him food, others give him spare clothes. That’s what his life has become…a loop of just enough to survive, never enough to change.

It’s strange how clearly I can see the pattern, even though I’m on the outside. He drinks because he’s lonely, but it’s the drinking that made him lonely again. And maybe he knows that. Maybe he’s fully aware of the cycle, and maybe that’s what hurts the most! knowing it, and still being powerless to break it! Or maybe the addiction has numbed him to the truth. Maybe he remembers those moments of love, but they feel like someone else’s memories now. Like watching a scene from a film he once liked but can no longer relate to.

I wonder if he still remembers that day by the tap, the way their eyes met like they had found something long lost. Does that memory come back to him in flashes when he’s half-asleep and the world is quiet? Or has it vanished completely, swallowed by the haze in his mind? Maybe it flickers now and then, like a dying bulb, but never stays long enough to light anything up.

Addiction is not just a matter of willpower or poor choices…it is a deeply complex condition shaped by biology, psychology, trauma, and environment. For many, it alters the brain’s reward system and impairs judgment, making it incredibly difficult to break free even when the consequences are fully understood. It creates a loop of dependency that feeds on isolation, shame, and emotional pain, often the very things a person is trying to escape. Recovery isn’t simply about stopping; it’s about learning how to live again without the substance that has become a crutch for survival. And for families, the burden is just as heavy, the line between helping and enabling blurs, and the emotional toll of watching someone spiral can be overwhelming, even paralyzing. That’s why addiction fractures more than just individuals, it strains relationships, exhausts compassion, and in many cases, quietly tears apart the people trying hardest to hold things together.

I often wonder how strong this addiction must be, to make someone forget the love they once had, to dull the most tender moments of their life into background noise. I wonder if he still remembers that glance exchanged over water jars, or if it’s been erased completely. I don’t know. I’m not addicted. I’ve never had that kind of relationship with a drink. So maybe I’m not wise enough to understand. Maybe I never will be.

But still, I wonder… is it fair to leave someone like him alone? Is it right to walk away from someone who is sick, even when their sickness has turned them into someone you can no longer love? I don’t know where to place the blame. Maybe on him, maybe on her. Or maybe there’s no need to blame anyone.

Maybe she tried everything. Maybe she held his hand until her own body gave up. Maybe she stayed longer than most people would. Or maybe she, too, broke in ways that no one noticed. Addiction doesn’t just affect the one who drinks. It drains the people around them…slowly, steadily, until one day, there’s nothing left to give.

I can’t say for sure. I’m just a man sitting at a window, looking at their house. I can’t see what happened inside those rooms, what was said, what was felt, what was forgiven and what wasn’t. I don’t know how many nights were spent hoping for change, or how many mornings began with disappointment.

Maybe I’m just pretending to know, like all of us do when we explain other people’s heartbreak from the outside. Pretending I can make sense of how something that once looked so strong can disappear without a sound. The truth is, I don’t know where the love went. I just know it’s gone.

Maybe I’m part of the society he talks about in his drunken rambles. Maybe I’m the same kind of person who never really tried to understand him. Maybe that’s why he drinks. Maybe that’s why he’s alone.

Maybe we all are.

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Thanks for reading! 🙂