The View Was Beautiful. But I Was Not in It

The view was perfect.

From the top of Hill Nine, you could see the entire valley below — green fields stretching like a velvet cloth, a small lake shining like a silver mirror, and tiny houses scattered like children's toys. The sky was a soft blue, almost unreal, and the clouds looked like they had been painted with careful strokes.

No cars honked here. No people shouted. Just the wind, carrying the smell of wildflowers and something else — something harder to describe. A feeling, maybe.

Ayaan sat on the edge of the old wooden bench, the one that was always slightly loose on the left side. His camera rested beside him. It had been a gift. From someone who once said, “Capture the world as you see it.”

He had taken many photos. Hundreds, maybe thousands. But not a single one of himself.

It had been three months since he moved to this small mountain town. Three months since he left the city, the job, the noise, and everything that came with it. People thought he was chasing peace. In reality, he was running away from something he never had the courage to face.

Each morning, he walked up Hill Nine and sat on that bench. Locals called it the "healing hill." But he had not healed. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Today was different, though. There was a picnic table nearby. A couple had placed a basket on it. The girl wore a yellow dress, the kind you see in summer postcards. The boy had a guitar. They laughed quietly, unaware of Ayaan’s presence.

He watched them without blinking.

They reminded him of something. Not someone. Not a memory. But a version of himself — one that never became real.

That was the strange part.

Everything around him was beautiful. The view. The weather. The gentle sound of music. But inside, he felt as if the air was too clean, the smiles too bright, the peace too loud. It was like walking through a dream where everything looked right but felt wrong.

He raised his camera.

Click.

He zoomed in on the couple. Their smiles were wide, their eyes soft. But when he looked closely at the photo he had taken, he noticed something.

The girl’s hand was clenched under the table. Her smile did not touch her eyes. The boy’s shoulders were slightly stiff. And the guitar’s strings were broken.

He zoomed out.

The perfect picture disappeared.

Ayaan stood up. The wind tugged at his jacket. He walked slowly toward the edge of the hill. Not too close — just enough to see everything clearly.

He thought of the email he never replied to. The friend he ghosted. The letter he never mailed. The therapy session he never booked. The “I am fine” texts he kept sending.

He thought of the girl with the sunflower tattoo who used to sit beside him at the café, sketching people without their knowledge.

She had drawn him once. He still had the drawing, hidden between the pages of a notebook. He had never thanked her.

From far away, it looked like Ayaan had built a peaceful life — nature, silence, long walks, deep thoughts. But from close up, it was a place where he avoided everything he needed to confront.

He sat back down.

The couple left. The sun began to set. Shadows danced along the path leading back home. He did not move.

Sometimes, you need to be in the wrong place to realize what the right one feels like.

He took one last photo of the valley. This time, no filters. No angles. No pretending.

Then, for the first time in months, he turned the camera toward himself.

And pressed the button.