by Jordyn Park
Every morning, she opened her bedroom window and whispered her worries into the breeze.
It had started as a coping mechanism, recommended by no one, approved by absolutely no professionals, and discovered entirely by accident when she sneezed mid-existential crisis and decided the wind looked trustworthy enough to outsource her emotional baggage to.
For a while, nothing happened. Which was, honestly, comforting. The breeze did what most emotionally unavailable things do: it ignored her completely. Until the morning the window replied.
“You’re back again,” it said.
She froze mid-whisper.
The glass was slightly fogged, even though it was warm outside. Not in a dramatic haunted way. More like it had just been politely sighing for a very long time.
“I heard you yesterday,” the window added. “You worry loudly for someone who thinks she’s subtle.”
She blinked. “Windows don’t talk.”
Then, very calmly: “Neither do worries. Yet here we are.”
That was the beginning of their arrangement. She would open the window. The window would listen. Occasionally judge. Sometimes interrupt.
“You’re spiraling again,” it said one Tuesday.
“I am not spiraling,” she whispered defensively.
The curtain fluttered like an eye roll.
“You made a five-year plan during breakfast.”
“It was productive spiraling.”
The window did not respond. Which felt worse.
Still, she kept talking to it. About missed opportunities. About texts she reread too many times. About the fear that she was always one decision away from accidentally becoming a background character in her own life.
The window, to its credit, never fixed anything.
It just pointed things out.
“You know,” it said one morning, “Most of your problems are just you assuming things will go badly without evidence.”
“That’s not true,” she said.
It paused.
“Name three times the universe has personally attacked you.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“I’ll get back to you.”
Over time, something changed. Not dramatically. No cinematic transformation. No glowing aura of enlightenment.
Just smaller things.
She stopped whispering. Then she started speaking normally. Then, one day, she forgot to panic about something she usually panicked about. The window noticed immediately.
“You’re suspiciously calm today,” it said.
“I had coffee,” she replied.
“That explains nothing and yet somehow explains everything.”
Eventually, the mornings became quieter. And then came the day she opened the window and it didn’t say anything back.
There were no comments or sarcasm or any form of unsolicited emotional analysis.
Just air.
Just sky.
Just normal, disappointing silence.
“Hello?” she said cautiously.
Nothing. She tapped the glass.
Still nothing.
“Rude,” she muttered.
But as she stood there, she realized something strange.
She didn’t need it anymore because she had learned the language herself.
Before she closed the window, she hesitated.
Then whispered one last thing into the breeze, softer this time. The wind took it like it always had.
And somewhere, in the very faintest way, the glass almost looked like it smiled.
Art by Ati Van Twillert, “Always Better Together“
About the Author
Jordyn writes fiction about small mysteries in ordinary life. She is interested in silence, observation, and the stories people don’t fully tell.