Everything Looks Better From Far Away

The sea stretched out endlessly from the balcony, shimmering under the late afternoon sun. Waves rolled in with rhythmic ease, crashing softly against the rocks below. From this height, the world looked composed—postcard-perfect. The kind of view people spent their whole lives chasing.

Lena took a slow sip of her iced tea, the lemon wedge brushing her lip. The drink was cold, sweet, and refreshing—just like the air, just like the silence, just like the life she had carefully built here.

It was all perfect.

Except it wasn’t.

The table beside her held a book, unopened, and her phone, face-down. She hadn't touched either in hours. The tea, too, had lost its charm after the first few sips. But she kept holding the glass, as if it tethered her to something. To the moment. To the illusion.

The town below bustled quietly—tourists walking along the shoreline, children giggling, a dog barking somewhere out of view. It was all exactly as it should be. But Lena felt like a stranger in a dream someone else was having.

This had once been their dream. Hers and Daniel’s.

She glanced at the empty chair across from her. The cushion still bore the faint impression of his weight, though he hadn’t sat there in months. His books still lined the living room shelves. His favorite jacket still hung by the door, limp and untouched. His toothbrush still sat beside hers, as if he might come back for it one day.

He wouldn’t. Not really.

Everyone said it would get easier. That grief faded. That time smooths even the sharpest edges. And maybe they were right. Maybe it did get easier. Or maybe you just learned to sit with the silence until it stopped screaming.

From afar, her life looked untouched by loss. She still hosted dinners, still posted pictures of sunsets, still smiled politely when someone complimented her view.

“You’re so lucky to live here,” they’d say.

She would nod. “Yes, I know.”

But they didn’t see the empty spaces between her words. They didn’t hear the quietness when she turned off the music. They didn’t feel the weight of waking up to a bed too big for one person.

Down on the beach, a couple walked hand-in-hand, their laughter floating up the hill. She watched them carefully, like a scientist studying a fragile species. They looked real. They looked in love. She wondered if they’d last.

She didn’t resent them. Not really. She envied their certainty.

Lena had once believed in permanence, in forever. She and Daniel had made plans—where they’d travel, how they’d grow old together, which trees they’d plant in the yard. They had picked this house for its view, saying they'd never need to go anywhere else.

She still remembered the day they moved in. He had stood on this very balcony and said, “This view could fix anything.”

She had believed him.

Now she knew better.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the balcony tiles. The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and something faintly floral. Maybe jasmine.

She closed her eyes for a moment, pretending she was somewhere else. Somewhere less beautiful. Somewhere more real.

When she opened them again, the couple was gone. The beach was empty. Just sand and sea and sky. And silence.

Lena stood slowly, joints stiff from sitting too long. She walked to the edge of the balcony and rested her hands on the warm stone railing. From here, the world looked untouched. Serene. Almost holy.

It was only when you got closer that you saw the cracks.