My French Window short love story
So, um, you know that one spot in your house that accidentally becomes… like, your stage? For me, it’s this old French window in my room. Tall, wooden, with paint peeling off just enough to look “vintage” instead of “lazy tenant.” I usually sit there with my coffee, pretending I’m the lead actor in a tragic indie film.
Except—ahh—last month, the universe decided my French window was not just a window. Nope. It was about to become a full-blown… daa… love story stage.
He noticed her first. Or maybe she noticed him. Depends on who’s telling the story.
From his side, he was scrolling through random reels, headphones on, when he glanced up and saw her leaning against her French window across the street. A book in one hand, hair tied up in a messy bun that looked like it was made in exactly four annoyed attempts. And she laughed at something on her phone. That laugh? Yeah, it hit him like an espresso shot—sharp, warm, addictive.
From her side, um, it was less poetic. “Why is this random guy staring at me while eating chips like it’s his full-time job?” That was her first thought. His shirt had three buttons open like he was auditioning for a shampoo ad, and daa, he looked annoyingly good.
“Caught you staring,” she mouthed one day, raising an eyebrow.
“Me?!” he mouthed back, nearly choking on his chips. “Nooo.”
(Whisper to self: oh crap, Aarav, at least pretend you weren’t inhaling chips like a starving raccoon.)
She grinned, shaking her head, and disappeared inside. He sat there, embarrassed, muttering, “Nice move, genius. Real smooth.”
The French window became… like… their chatroom. No DMs, no texts, just exaggerated expressions, random signs, and awkward waves.
One evening, when the rain turned the street into a puddle orchestra, he leaned out and shouted, “So, um, hi. I’m Aarav.”
She tilted her head, dramatic pause, then shouted back, “Good for you, Aarav.”
Ouch.
(Whisper to self: Did she just roast me with my own introduction? Legendary. Also, brain, stop sweating. It’s rain, not her smile.)
Two seconds later, she giggled, “I’m Meera. Don’t fall out of your window trying to be charming.”
Days passed. Aarav started timing his evenings around her window. Sometimes he’d play guitar—badly. Sometimes she’d roll her eyes and clap sarcastically, like, “Bravo, daa, next time tune the guitar.”
(Whisper to self: okay, Aarav, maybe don’t attempt Ed Sheeran when you sound like a dying crow. But she’s laughing, so… win?)
And sometimes… sometimes silence fell between them, the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward but… warm.
Now, the cute embarrassment part? Oh, it was gold.
One Sunday morning, Meera stretched lazily by her window, half-asleep, hair everywhere, wearing the most ridiculous pink pajamas with cartoon ducks. Aarav, of course, chose that exact moment to look up.
“Nice ducks!” he shouted, grinning.
Her eyes widened. “Shut up!” she yelled, ducking—pun intended—behind the curtains.
(Whisper to self: ugh, brain, why did I even stand near the window? Why didn’t I check my outfit? Oh crap, he saw the ducks. Abort mission. Hide. Stay hidden forever.)
Five minutes later, she peeked out, cheeks red. “You tell anyone about this, and I swear—”
“Relax,” Aarav interrupted, holding up his phone like a microphone. “This will be my stand-up material. ‘The girl with ducky pajamas.’”
Meera groaned, hiding her face. “Why are you like this?”
“Genetics,” he replied, shrugging.
And ahh, you know, somewhere between sarcasm and silliness, something soft grew.
Aarav told her about his failed graphic design gigs. “Clients want modern but vintage, bold but minimal, you know? Basically impossible.”
Meera laughed so hard she spilled coffee. (Whisper to self: great, now my window smells like latte. Romantic.)
She confessed about writing struggles. “I open a blank page, type three lines, delete them, and then binge-watch cooking shows.”
“Super productive,” Aarav said, nodding. “Next Nobel Prize winner for procrastination.”
One night, the power went out. Total blackout. Aarav lit a candle, waved it like a torch. Meera lit hers too, and for a while, they just sat there in that flickering glow, silhouettes framed by French windows.
“You know,” Aarav said softly, “this feels like a scene from a movie.”
“Yeah,” Meera whispered back, “except you’d probably trip over the candle and set your curtains on fire.”
(Whisper to self: smooth, Meera. Kill the vibe before it gets mushy. Classic defense mechanism.)
He smirked. “Romance killer.”
But here’s the thing. Behind all that sarcasm, both of them were… um… carrying little cracks.
Aarav had a breakup that made him feel like he was “too much.” Meera had parents who thought writing was a waste, and a fiancé she almost married but didn’t.
So yeah, the French window became their confession booth.
“Do you ever think,” Meera asked one evening, “that maybe we’re all just… waiting for someone to see us?”
Aarav blinked, then said, “Um, yeah. I mean, I see you. Even in ducky pajamas.”
She threw a cushion at him. He ducked.
(Whisper to self: : Did he really mean that? Like, really see me? Brain, don’t overthink. Just laugh. Just laugh.)
The first time he crossed the street to stand under her window, his hands were sweating.
“So, uh, hi,” he said, looking up. “Different angle, same guy.”
Meera leaned out, smirking. “Congrats. You’ve upgraded from stalker to… guest appearance.”
“Guest appearance?” he repeated. “Excuse me, I’m the main lead here.”
(Whisper to self: Aarav, stop. Don’t oversell it. She already knows you almost died choking on chips.)
It rained again that night. Heavy, dramatic rain. Aarav stayed under her window, soaked, arms open.
“You’re insane,” Meera said, laughing.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But maybe you need a little insane.”
(Whisper to self: daa… did I just say that? Too cheesy? Crap. Please don’t run, please don’t run.)
And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t run.
Because that night, Meera pulled him inside. And for the first time, they weren’t just framed by windows. They were framed by each other.
(Whisper to self: : oh crap… this feels like the start of something. Like, real-real.)