The Girl in the Purple Window

I. The House That Forgot How to Dream

The house always smelled of old beer and things no one wanted to talk about. The air was heavy with memories, but no one remembered anything clearly. It was the kind of place where time felt paused, where the clock ticked only because it had nothing better to do.

Her father slept most of the day on a couch that had given up long ago. Springs poked out from the sides like broken bones. He snored and mumbled in his sleep, and sometimes, he cried. But he never talked about it when he woke up. The television played reruns of shows no one cared about, and empty cans rolled across the floor when the dog barked too loud.

And the dog always barked. At nothing. At everything. At the silence.

The cat, old and wise and probably magic, spent most of its time behind the curtain that hung crooked over the window. It never meowed, just blinked slowly, as if telling her: You see it too, don’t you?


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II. The Purple Window

It wasn’t just any window. This one was different. One of the glass panes was stained a soft, dreamy purple. No one remembered who had put it there. Maybe it was a child’s experiment. Maybe it had always been that way.

But for the girl, it became a portal. When the world inside felt too loud or too numb, she sat on the windowsill and stared out through the purple glass. The outside looked different from there—gentler, surreal. Colors blended like wet paint. Trees looked like poems. People became shadows of stories not yet told.

The purple window held a sky that never truly changed. It was always somewhere between dusk and night, between a farewell and a greeting. The sun never rose. The moon never fell. They just hovered, watching each other in the bouncing light of that single stained pane, like two shy lovers caught in an endless moment.

And she would sit, hour after hour, imagining things that made her heart ache in beautiful ways.


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III. Almost Brave Enough

Sometimes, she thought about calling the cops on her father.

It wasn’t just the drinking. It wasn’t just the yelling when he was too far gone. It was the fear—the kind that crept under your skin and made a home there. The kind of fear you couldn’t explain without sounding dramatic.

She wanted to be brave. Wanted to be the girl who made the call, who changed her own story.

But the phone was always too far away. Or her hands were too shaky. Or maybe, deep down, she still hoped he’d get better. That he’d remember how to be a father. That one day he’d turn off the TV and ask her how her day was.

So instead, she just went back to the window. Because the purple glass never yelled. It never smelled of old beer or regret. It just watched. It just was.


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IV. When the Sky Opened

It happened quietly. No thunder. No fireworks. Just a soft ripple in the glass, like a sigh.

The purple in the window shimmered, and the sky beyond it blinked. For a second, the reflection of the moon touched the reflection of the sun, and something clicked.

The girl didn’t ask questions. She didn’t grab a bag or leave a note. She just stood up, pressed her palm to the glass—and stepped through.

On the other side, the world was made of light and silence that felt like a hug. The ground was soft, like walking on clouds. The wind carried laughter. Pink sunsets stretched forever, melting into golden edges.

The dog’s barking was gone. So was the beer. So was the sadness.

She floated through skies that had no names. Danced with stars that blinked stories into her skin. Talked with birds that asked her riddles. And she smiled—really smiled—for the first time in years.


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V. “Where Have You Been?”

Somewhere in that eternal twilight, the sky leaned close and asked, “Where have you been?”

The girl looked at her feet, then back up at the horizon.

“Exploring pink sunsets,” she said.
I said.

And sometimes, I try to forget about being
the girl in the purple window.

But forgetting isn’t healing. So I return, in my dreams or on blank pages, not to stay trapped—but to remember how far I’ve come.

Because that girl still lives in some version of me. She still watches the sun and the moon fail to meet. She still wonders what would’ve happened if she’d made that call.

But she also remembers the day the sky broke open,
and she chose to walk through.