The Window | Passing Seasons

Longing

Cecile sits in her room, nestled in her favorite spot—on the bench beneath the bay window. Her eyes trace the world outside, but her thoughts are far away, tethered to him. Why did he leave her? Why did he say it was for the best? Whose best? He thinks he's protecting me, she wonders, but how could distance ever keep me safe?

Outside, life flows on, indifferent to her stillness. Cars hum along the street, leaves swirl in the breeze, and the sky shifts from one shade of blue to another. The world moves in rhythm, but she remains frozen, anchored to this moment, to this question that lingers like fog: Why did he leave?

His words echo in her mind. "It's for the best, Cecile." His voice had been calm, firm, as if the decision was so easy to make. As if it wouldn't fracture something inside her. He had said it with the conviction of someone trying to believe their own lie. For the best. She clenches her jaw, feeling the weight of those words, heavy and cold, as though they've wrapped themselves around her heart.

She stares out the window as days slip by, unnoticed. People walk their dogs, joggers pass in the early mornings, and the seasons shift. Winter's chill fades, giving way to the soft bloom of spring, but inside, her world remains unchanged. Time seems to stretch endlessly before her, each day a mirror of the last.

What is the point of all this distance, she wonders, if all it does is make the longing worse? He thinks he's keeping me safe, but I'm not safer. I'm just... here. Waiting. She presses her forehead firmly against the glass, as though she might feel something through it—a connection, a sign, anything.

"You think I'm better off without you," she whispers into the empty room, the sound of her voice foreign and fragile after days of silence. "But I'm not. I'm lost."

The window offers no answers. The outside world continues its indifferent dance, bright with new life, but none of it touches her. She's trapped in the past, in the last moment she saw him. His silhouette walking away, the soft clink of his boots on the pavement, the fading sound of his breath as he uttered those final words: "For the best."

But was it? Her heart refuses to heal in the space he left behind. She traces the frost left by her breath on the glass, watching it blur and fade, much like the days that stretch ahead of her—uncertain, empty.

She closes her eyes, sinking deeper into the bench. Every day, she hopes for something, some clarity, or maybe even the return of what she lost. Yet, as the hours pass, she finds herself tethered more to the pain than to the hope of his return.

Perhaps that's the truth. It wasn't him that left. It was her, left behind, watching the world move on without her.

The soft creak of the door breaks the silence. Cecile's mother steps into the room, her footsteps cautious, almost hesitant, as if afraid to disturb the fragile stillness that hangs in the air. She stands beside the bay window, her presence a shadow in Cecile's peripheral vision.

"Hey sweetie," her mother says gently, her voice low, tentative. "It's been days... you can't keep sitting here like this."

Cecile doesn't respond. Her eyes remain fixed on the view outside, on the world that keeps moving without her. She feels her mother's hand rest lightly on her shoulder, a gesture meant to comfort, but Cecile only registers the weight, like an intrusion into the space where she's hidden herself away.

Her mother bends down and wraps her arms around Cecile in a tender hug. The warmth of the embrace seeps in, but Cecile doesn't lean into it. Instead, she stiffens, her gaze locked on the distant trees swaying in the breeze. She feels disconnected, like she's watching herself from a distance, unable to break through the thick veil of sadness that clings to her.