The Window I Never Opened

There was a window in my childhood home that I never opened.

It was in the corner of my bedroom, overlooking the narrow street where bicycles rattled and children shouted until the sun dipped below the roofs. The glass was always a little foggy, the frame painted thick with layers of white over the years. My mother used to say the window was stubborn, that it had been painted shut long before we moved in.

But I never asked her to fix it. I never pressed my father to pry it open. Instead, I accepted its silence. I lived beside it every day, staring through the smudged glass as seasons passed.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Every house has its quirks, after all. But as I grew older, that unopened window became something more. It became a boundary, a thin but solid line between what was safe inside and what waited outside.

I would lean against the sill with my homework spread across the desk, listening to the world I never stepped into. I heard the rush of summer cicadas, the hiss of rain, the chatter of neighbors hanging laundry. I breathed the air that seeped through the cracks, just enough to remind me the world was moving, even if I wasn’t.

When I was sixteen, a boy named Aaron used to ride his skateboard down our street every evening. He would glance up at my window sometimes, and I would freeze, pretending to be absorbed in my book. Once, he waved. My heart leapt, but I didn’t wave back. I remember pressing my hand against the glass, wanting to slide the pane up, to lean out and say something, anything.

But the window stayed closed.

Later, when friends urged me to join them at parties, to take risks, to chase adventures, I found myself thinking of that window. I always had excuses — homework, a headache, a shift at my part-time job. The truth was simpler: the window had taught me to stay put. To watch instead of act. To listen instead of speak.

It’s strange how a single detail in a house can shape the way you live.

Years passed, and life unfolded in quiet ways. I went to college, chose a stable career, and stayed close to home. I fell in love once, or at least I thought I did, but I let the relationship slip away before it had the chance to grow roots. The window was always with me, even in other places, in other rooms. The unopened window became a habit, a mindset.

And yet, not all was lost. I built a life of steady rhythms. I made friends, I cared for family, I found joy in small rituals. But still, sometimes late at night, I wondered what might have changed if I had ever dared to open that stubborn frame.

When my parents sold the old house, I returned one last time. The rooms were empty, the air sharp with the smell of fresh paint. My footsteps echoed as I climbed the staircase to my childhood room.

And there it was — the window. Exactly as I had left it.

I stood in front of it, almost laughing at how ordinary it looked. Just a square of glass and wood. But for me, it was heavy with all the years it had represented. My fingers touched the sill, and for the first time, I pushed against the frame. To my surprise, it shifted slightly, groaning like an old man woken from sleep.

I didn’t push harder. I didn’t force it open. Instead, I let it be. Because I realized something in that moment: the window didn’t have to open. What mattered was that I could still choose to open other ones — the ones inside me, the ones ahead of me.

That unopened window was no longer a prison. It was a reminder.

We all have our own “windows.” A risk we didn’t take. A conversation we avoided. A dream we let slip quietly into the shadows. For years, I thought those unopened windows meant I had failed. That I had missed my chance.

But maybe unopened windows are not failures. Maybe they are simply markers, showing us where we once stood, where we once hesitated. And maybe the lesson is not to regret them, but to recognize them — and then look for the next window.

Because even now, at this stage of my life, there are new ones waiting. I can travel to a place I’ve never seen. I can learn something that scares me. I can love with both feet inside the room, not behind the glass.

The window in my childhood bedroom will always remain unopened. But I am learning, at last, to open others.