The Window Inside Me

The rain came slow and then all at once, like a hush settling over a memory too heavy to hold. It slipped into the silence of my room without asking, the way some people do. My window stood open, wide and quiet, letting in the storm like an old friend I didn’t have the heart to turn away. Raindrops slid across the cold tiles, beneath my bed, and under the door. They left puddles in the places warmth once used to grow.

I didn’t move, nor did I block the water’s flow. I didn’t put a cloth in its path, nor did I interrupt it when it bled through. I just remained, watching the sky weep in my room.

And in that moment, the window reminded me of something once pure. Something open and welcoming. The soft was the cruel, and the jagged the gentle. Never learning to differentiate, just letting them all in—believing and believing.

Some stayed while some fled. The good ones were kind, and when they spoke, they lit me from the inside. Not with fire. But where the good is, there is bad. The ones who left messes. The ones who left stains in the softest parts.

And still, I tried to fix it. Believing and believing.

People advised me to close it up. They said it would feel better. They thought, Why clean messes when you can un-root them? And so I did. Young and dumb. Shut the way to my heart just to hide from the storm. But little did I know it meant closing the way for the sweet scent of the soil coming from afar. After the storm, I tried to open locked doors. But some hearts stay closed. Begging and knocking didn’t work. Patience failed the test.

No storms came afterward. But no sun rose either.

And that’s why the window remains open. I let the water seep in and let it soak the floor. I let the storm wander wherever it wishes to go. Because without the chaos, the calm won’t be the calm. Because without the cold, the warmth wouldn’t be warm.

So the window remains open, and my heart stays quietly closed.