The Window Between Us

There’s a window in my apartment that catches the morning light just right.

It’s nothing special—just old glass, a chipped wooden frame, and a view of rooftops and sky. But for a long time, it meant something more.

Because that’s where you always sat. Every morning, same time, same chipped mug of tea. You’d pull your knees to your chest, rest your chin on them, and just... exist. Quietly. Softly. Like the world was too loud and you needed a moment to tune it out.

You never said much during those mornings. You didn’t have to. That silence, gentle and unbroken, said more than any small talk ever could.

I used to watch you from across the room. Pretending to scroll on my phone, pretending to read. But really, I was watching you. The way the sunlight wrapped itself around you. The way you blinked slowly when you were lost in thought. The way your fingers traced invisible patterns on the windowpane, like you were writing a secret only you understood.

That window became our quiet place. A place where everything made sense, even if nothing was being said. Where my feelings lived just beneath the surface, waiting—hoping—you’d see them.

But you never did.

Or maybe you did, and you pretended not to.

I can’t really blame you. I was never brave enough to say it out loud either. I kept our connection folded neatly inside me, hidden in between polite smiles and late-night texts that always stopped short of confession.

I remember the day it changed. You were quieter than usual. You kept looking out the window like it had betrayed you. Like it had once held hope and now reflected nothing back.

I asked if you were okay.

You said you were tired.

And then, without looking at me, you said you were leaving.

Just like that.

No warning. No fight. No closure. You didn’t cry, and I didn’t stop you. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe I should’ve stood up, walked across the room, taken your hand and said, “Stay. Please stay.”

But instead, I nodded like I understood. Like it didn’t rip something out of me.

You left a few days later. I helped you pack. Smiled while you boxed up pieces of yourself. I even joked about who’d water the plants. And the entire time, I kept waiting—for a pause, a glance, something to signal that you were waiting too. That you wanted a reason to stay.

But it never came.

The morning you left, you sat by the window one last time. You didn’t drink tea. You didn’t say a word. And then you stood up, kissed me on the forehead, and walked out the door.

I haven’t moved that chair since.

Some days, I still catch myself looking up, expecting to see you sitting there. Legs tucked in, eyes distant, heart close.

I kept telling myself it was just timing. That we were two right people born into the wrong moment. That love, real love, isn’t always loud or obvious — sometimes, it hides in glances and quiet windowsills.

But maybe that’s just how I cope with your absence.

A few weeks ago, I finally went through the photos on my phone. There were so many of you. Of us. None posed. All stolen moments. Laughing mid-bite. Sleeping on the couch. Your reflection in the window as the sun set behind you.

It made me ache. But it also made me smile.

Because we were real.

Even if we were brief.

Even if we ended.

Last night, it rained. The kind of rain that drums gently on the glass and makes everything feel softer. I sat by that same window, wrapped in your old sweater, and let the memories flood in.

And for the first time in months, I let myself cry.

Not because I missed you—though I did.

But because I was finally ready to let go of the version of you that lived in this room.

You’re probably happy now. I hope you are. I hope there’s someone else who knows how you take your tea, who notices the way you scratch your elbow when you're nervous. I hope they listen when you speak, and even when you don’t.

As for me, I’m still learning how to live in the quiet without you. But I’m getting better. I’ve started opening the windows in the morning again. Letting the light in. Letting the air move through the space we once shared.

The chair still sits in its usual spot, but now there’s a plant beside it. It’s growing wild. Tangled, vibrant, unapologetic.

Just like I’m trying to be.

Maybe someday, someone else will sit by that window. Maybe they’ll notice how the light hits just right. Maybe they’ll ask about the slight curve in the wood from where your mug always rested.

And maybe, I’ll smile.

And tell them: “Someone I loved once sat there.”

And leave it at that.