It was with a calm and steady hand that she cleared the dust from her window to peek at the street below. She wondered how long it had been since her fingertips had last touched the mere suggestion of the weather’s cold. It was impossible to remember just as it was impossible to remember the feeling of being alive at times. It was a dream to meander through on her way to the abyss. She had raged against all of those heroes on the walkways, simply making their way to work. Their everyday lives were her injustice. Her longing to be one of them was her spade to bury herself in mounds of regret and blame.
Daylight, she remembered, was brutal: a time when others could simply exist. Her stomach pitched and tears formed. Jesus, how she longed for it. The tips of her fingers now grew numb as she pressed them upon the glass, as if breaking through would fix it, not make her appear mad, not cause her hand to bleed with countless deep cuts. Then people would call her a lunatic, they would tell her she needs help, and even if she did need it, she knew they didn’t mean their help. They meant the kind of help with a piece of paper on the wall and plaques on the shelf.
Even thinking about this was dangerous and she began to pull back. Her frozen fingers gripped the curtains that she intended to pull shut.
Then, on the street she saw him, shyly glancing up. When their eyes met, they both blushed. But he smiled though she frowned at him and he took a step toward her house. A bubble of terror swelling in her made her choke on a strangled, unbidden sound.
She suddenly wished he’d go away, and as if in response, he began to wave. His smile grew and his greeting went wider to match it until others around him now paused to gaze up.
These strangers all waved, smiles alight and welcoming. Some even began to shout. And it was there and then, on that frigid, seemingly unforgiving day, she knew it was time to come out.