Yara de Graaf

A few days ago, something strange happened. I was sitting at my desk in the crisis center, ready for my regular evening shift. As a psychologist with my own practice in Amsterdam, Netherlands, I volunteer twice a week after work, taking calls from people in crisis. I’m 39 now, and after three years of doing this, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected. But this call caught me off guard in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

A woman called in, her voice unsteady, as she told me about the constant arguments with her partner. She described feeling trapped, like she couldn’t see a way out. Her story wasn’t unusual—many women call in to talk about difficult relationships. But as she went on, something tugged at the back of my mind. Her descriptions weren’t just familiar emotionally; they felt familiar in a different way.

There’s a couple who live in the apartment behind mine, just across the courtyard. They fight often, their voices carrying through the walls into my home. I’ve spent many nights hearing their arguments, wondering if I should do something. I even called the police once, but nothing seemed to change. As the woman on the phone kept talking, the similarities became hard to ignore. Could she be the same woman I’ve been worrying about from my window?

I kept listening, offering her support, guiding her through her feelings. Despite her desperation, she was warm and open, and by the end of the call, she sounded relieved. She thanked me before hanging up, and I sat there, a little dazed. Since then, it’s been noticeably quieter in my backyard. I can’t be sure, of course, but I have a strong feeling that the woman I spoke to is the same one I’ve been hearing for months.

How strange, living just a few meters apart, separated by walls, yet she doesn’t know who I am—and now I know so much about her. It’s an unsettling thought, this invisible connection between us, woven through a phone call and a shared space neither of us acknowledged.