Maya first noticed it at the coffee shop. She was well-rested, still glowing from last night's dinner with old friends, when the barista dropped a cup. Without thinking, Maya was already moving to help, gathering napkins, sharing a laugh about Monday mornings. She left an extra-large tip and bought a coffee for the person behind her. As she turned to leave, she caught the eye of a woman sitting by the window, a stack of books beside her. Something in the woman's gaze made Maya pause — a moment of recognition she didn't quite understand. She walked to work humming.
It wasn't until two weeks later, watching the same barista drop a different cup, that she remembered that morning. This time, she'd gripped her phone tighter, the deep blue scarf she always wore feeling suddenly constrictive at her neck as she stared at the mess and thought only of how this would make her late. Late for a meeting she was already dreading, in a week that felt like one endless demand. As she turned to leave, she noticed the woman with the books was there again, but found herself looking away quickly — she didn't want to be seen like this, so different from that other morning. Her fingers found her scarf, adjusting it like a shield.
The contrast hit her with such force it made her pause. Same café, same spill, same her — but two entirely different versions of herself.
She began noticing these contrasts. The day her sister called in tears, and Maya had the energy to really listen — not just to the words, but to the silence between them. The next week, when the same sister called and Maya found herself offering solutions just to end the conversation faster.
There were the mornings she'd wake up naturally, five minutes before her alarm, and find herself helping her elderly neighbor carry groceries up the stairs. And the mornings she'd hit snooze three times, then feel a flash of relief when she saw the neighbor had already managed without her.
It wasn't that she was kind one day and unkind the next. The kindness was always there, like a river. Sometimes it flowed freely. Sometimes rocks of exhaustion, hurry, and worry dammed its path.
She began to watch for these windows, these moments when life felt lighter. They weren't random. They came after long talks with friends that left her feeling seen. After walks in the park where she had nowhere to be. After saying no to things that would have drained her further.
At work, she noticed the pattern, too. Ideas flowed effortlessly on the days when the windows were open. Complex problems that had stumped her for weeks would suddenly unravel. Her presentations landed, her writing was clearer, her designs more innovative. It wasn't that she became smarter or more skilled — the capacity was always there, like the kindness. It just flowed more freely when she wasn't overwhelmed or exhausted from trying to force herself to be a certain way.
One morning, Maya found herself pausing at the café's window before entering. Through the glass, she watched the now-familiar scene: the rush of customers, the steam rising from cups, the barista's practiced movements. The woman with the books was in her usual spot by the window. When their eyes met this time, Maya felt different — more at ease in herself — and something in the woman's warm gaze seemed to recognize this too. Instead of going in, she adjusted her scarf and chose the longer route to work, through the park where she sometimes ran.
As she walked, watching early joggers and dog-walkers greet each other with easy smiles, Maya realized something had shifted — not just in moments like these, but in how she held all her days. The windows were staying open longer. Not because she'd become a better person, but because she'd learned to notice what kept them open in the first place.
She still had hard days. But now she knew they were just that — hard days, not character flaws. And she knew, with a certainty born of observation, that another window would open soon enough.