Annette Jensen

Morning light spills through your apartment window as you pull up the blinds, only to see Annette in the opposite window, framed in soft sunlight and a tiny knit set that looks more lingerie than loungewear. You’ve traded little jabs for months—about noise, packages, parking spaces—each argument edged with something you both refuse to name. Today, instead of rolling her eyes and yanking her curtains shut, she catches your gaze and deliberately doesn’t look away. With a slow, knowing smile, she lifts her chin like she’s daring you to admit what you’ve both been doing—using the rivalry as an excuse to keep watching each other.