Balcony View

The balcony was perfect.

The city sprawled in every direction, softened by the warm tint of late evening. Buildings rose like glass and steel sculptures, catching fire in the golden hour glow. From up here, the world was hushed, the noise of traffic pressed flat into a gentle hum, almost pleasant. It was the kind of view that made people pause, the kind of backdrop that belonged in glossy magazines or realtor ads: Luxury living, skyline included.

Behind me, the apartment stood waiting. Freshly painted walls, floors that still smelled faintly of varnish, every surface clean, unmarked, unsullied. Mine. A blank canvas to fill with a life I had promised myself I was finally ready to live.

This was what I had worked toward. What I had told myself I wanted. What I had imagined in smaller, darker apartments when I said, One day, I’ll get there. One day, it’ll be enough.

And yet—

The glass in my hand sweated against my skin. Drops slid down to my wrist, cold trails against warmth. I held it tighter, as if I could hold the moment steady, as if gripping hard enough might keep everything from slipping through the cracks.

The view was beautiful. Too beautiful.

That was the problem.

Because beauty is merciless. It gives you no place to hide. There’s no excuse for sadness when the world gleams like this. No permission for emptiness when the sky is brushed with gold and every angle suggests harmony.

And still, the ache rose in me like tidewater.

I told myself I should be grateful. I told myself that people would envy this, that friends back home would look at photos and say, You’ve made it. You’re living the dream. And yet, standing there, with everything I had wanted, I felt more like an imposter than ever.

Everything was beautiful.

But everything was somehow wrong.

And I was somehow unhappy.

It should have been enough. The balcony, the skyline, the new beginning. Proof of progress. Proof of becoming. But my chest felt hollow, a cavity echoing with all the things I couldn’t name.

I slipped on sunglasses though the sun had already begun to dip. Through their tint, the perfection softened, grew less sharp. For a moment, I could almost believe it. The world blurred into something warm, digestible, like a painting instead of a mirror. Almost.

Almost was as close as I came to belonging.

The agony was quiet, but it was steady. Not the loud kind that breaks glass or drives you screaming into the night. No—this was subtler. A knot beneath the ribs. A reminder that no matter how far you travel, you bring yourself along, and sometimes the self you bring doesn’t fit inside the life you thought you wanted.

I turned back toward the glass door. My reflection wavered there, superimposed against the skyline. For a heartbeat, I looked whole: a person with their life together, surveying their kingdom from above.

But then I leaned closer, and the image fractured—my outline slipping into shadows, the background too perfect to contain me.

The balcony glowed.

The skyline shone.

The apartment waited.

And I wasn’t in it.

Not really. Not yet.

That’s the cruelty of perfection—it hands you everything you asked for and whispers, Now prove you deserve it.

I lifted the glass to my lips, but the drink had gone warm. I swallowed anyway.

This was the view I had wanted. The dream I had chased. And standing in it, I realized the truth that undid me:

Perfection isn’t peace.

It’s pressure.

And when the lights dim, when the paint dries, when the glass door closes, I will still be here.

Inside myself.

Unchanged.

The city was beautiful. The night was coming. My apartment, flawless and silent, waited for me to step inside.

I didn’t move.

Because if I did, I feared the illusion would collapse—

and I’d have to admit

that everything was perfect,

and I was still not okay.