The Window

The alarm sounds at precisely 5:30 a.m., waking him from his dreamless sleep. Before the mirror, steadfast bristles skim his teeth, marking the rhythmic pattern of strokes. As he walks to class at exactly 8:53 a.m., his feet fall into the familiar cadence of thump . . . thump . . . thump . . . thump. The pattern consumes his mind and his soul. It becomes his world. Oblivious to everything around him—the golden sun, the gentle breeze, even his schoolmates passing by—the precision is all that matters.

She is awoken not by an alarm, but by the world around her. Letting the hot water melt into her skin, her reflection beckons to her. Who are you, really? it asks. But her carefree eyes delicately dance around the words and a smile illuminates her face. She doesn’t walk to class; she glides, with footsteps not defined by numbers, but by the flowing music in her head. Her eyes, her ears, and her soul absorb the world around her. The wind kisses her face, coaxing her to come play. Skimming the early morning sky with her cobalt eyes, she thinks it is so beautiful that God must have painted it himself. She is no longer just a person; she is the air; the sky; the world.

Soon, the music fills his silence. The cadence, once defined only by footsteps, is suddenly brought to life by the gently flowing notes. The music infiltrates his soul, opening his eyes and ears to the world. It floods upon him; the sights, the sounds, the people, her.

But before he can take a step farther into this unfamiliar world, the ironclad chains of exactitude bind his limbs. He thrashes and beats at the chains, desperate to be rid of him, but deep down he knows he will never escape. He will never step beyond the window dividing their worlds. Face pressed against the glass, hot breath condensing on it, his view becomes increasingly blurred.

Eventually, the chains of precision drag him away from the impassable, back to his world of patterns and meticulousness. But he will return; he will always return to view the life he dreams of. But he will never live it.

A/N: This was a piece that I wrote for the first week of a writing course, then edited as my final assignemnt. However, I'm sure it will go through many more revisions before I'm anywhere near happy with it, so reviews are very much apreciated!