Window

It's a story of a window. A window of stories, a window of mysteries, a window of differences. The rich widow.

Whenever I feel lost or in search of something, I walk down a familiar road, the one in front of "Offshore Heights," a building packed with apartments. That window belonged to that building—or perhaps to the apartment's owner—or maybe, it belonged to no one at all. Maybe it simply belonged to itself.

The thing is, it was the most beautiful window I had ever seen, or at least it was to me. Perhaps even to the one who built it. But it wasn’t beautiful to the people living inside the apartment for one simple reason: they never looked through it long enough to see what I did.

A window is a paradox—it lets you see through, but never lets you in. A silent storyteller, a voiceless confessional, a mirror turned outward to the world.

So let me tell you what I saw through that window.

---

It was a fine lady, full of grace,

I know that apartment was her place,

But with a man? I couldn't tell—

She called him baby, played it well.

I know that she was hating her,

But him? Perhaps—perhaps unsure.

She pressed her lips against his face,

A thief in search of stolen grace.

Her hands traced him like a blind woman's sight,

Reading a language that never felt right.

Her fingers, soft yet laced with greed,

Played melodies his skin didn't need.

He stood still, a mannequin warm,

An instrument silent in human form.

She unbuttoned his shirt, then his pants,

He only had to give one glance.

She devoured the moment, her body a flame,

Burning for something she’d never claim.

He endured the moment, trapped in a role,

Chained by routine, losing his soul.

She adored the undressed man,

But clothed, he was a different plan.

She paid him well, as it was due,

Then gazed out, never seeing who.

---

She looked out the window, never seeing the eyes that saw her. I left, having seen it all. And I felt proud—proud of how much I could see, how much they could not. Only to find myself once again, standing in the same spot, staring at the same window.

---

It was a fine gentleman, calm and grim,

I know that apartment belonged to him.

But with a girl? I couldn't say—

She called him baby, played the play.

I know that he was loving her,

But she? Perhaps—perhaps unsure.

She pressed her lips against his face,

A desperate whisper lost in space.

Her fingers moved like a locksmith’s art,

Picking at doors that stayed locked in his heart.

Her breath, warm yet distant, roamed,

A storm that neared but never honed.

He stood, an unlit candle still,

Waiting for fire against his will.

She unbuttoned his shirt, then his pants,

He only had to give one glance.

She moved like a puppet, bound in thread,

He pulled the strings with quiet dread.

She played her role, he bore his fate,

Two actors locked in hands of fate.

Her nails dug deep, but he stayed numb,

For pleasure was a script long undone.

He hated the undressed girl in sight,

But speaking, she felt almost right.

He paid her well, then turned away,

Gazing past what wished to stay.

---

He looked out the window, never seeing the eyes that saw him. I left, astonished—astonished at how much I could see and how much they could not. I was too invested in it, only to find myself again, standing in the same place, looking at the same window.

---

Tonight was different, not the same,

Tonight, they played a bolder game.

The lady and the gentleman met,

Both shameless, both in silent debt.

Both sought answers in embrace,

Yet never looked beyond their space.

They kissed, they laughed, their bodies swayed,

In tongues of love long decayed.

Ancient echoes, soft yet blurred,

Mimicking sounds they'd never heard.

They tangled deep, they gasped for air,

Two drowning souls, lost in despair.

They made love like lovers do,

Yet love was something neither knew.

Unraveled threads, pulled loose, set free,

From fabric never meant to be.

The window stood, its silence tall,

A god that watched yet told it all.

It had seen these games before,

Yet never spoke, nor kept a score.

It only showed what they'd deny,

A fleeting glimpse, a hollow lie.

I watched them both, unseen, aware,

And when they looked, I wasn’t there.

They never stayed to truly see—

The truth reflected back at me.

---

I was watching them, when they glanced out the window, they didn’t notice I was there.They were never at the window long enough The real question is—who was seeing more?

The lady and the gentleman, lost in their fleeting moments, never noticing me? Or I, who noticed everything, yet failed to notice what I was doing? Or the boy and the girl, who knew exactly what they were doing, yet saw nothing at all?

What is it to see? To truly see?

Was I a voyeur or a philosopher? A storyteller or a shadow?

Did the window show me the world, or did it trap me in it?

And if no one ever looks long enough—does anything really exist?

My work is not to give answers—only to tell the story.

-Dweep Goyal