There are some windows you remember long after you have forgotten the walls around them.
For me, there was one.
It stood quietly beside a coconut tree, in a room that was new to me, in a place that felt both beautiful and unfamiliar.
Everything seemed different.
The air felt different.
The mornings felt different.
The sounds, the trees, the little lanes, the houses, the rhythm of life—everything had a charm I had never known before.
I was happy, but I was a little scared too.
Perhaps that is what happens when life changes all at once. You can be excited about what lies ahead and still quietly miss everything that once felt familiar.
But there was warmth around me.
And slowly, the unfamiliar began to feel like home.
The room had two little windows.
One looked towards another house. The other opened towards a small, empty patch of land filled with trees. Beyond it was a narrow lane where vehicles passed, people came and went, and life carried on in its own beautiful rhythm.
And I would lie on that bed and look outside.
Sometimes I wasn’t looking for anything.
I was simply watching.
The coconut trees swaying in the breeze.
The birds hopping between branches.
The sunlight finding its way through the leaves.
The sky changing colours as the day moved gently towards evening.
And inside that little room, there was a world of its own.
There was laughter.
There were long conversations about everything and nothing. There were cuddles, silly moments, quiet smiles, happy talks and the comfort of simply being together.
There were days when we laughed so much that we forgot what we were laughing about.
There were evenings when we spoke for hours.
And there were quiet moments too—when nothing needed to be said.
Looking back, those were perhaps the most beautiful days.
Nothing extraordinary was happening.
There was no grand view outside that window. No mountains, no sea, no magnificent garden.
Just a coconut tree.
A little patch of green.
A narrow lane.
Some birds.
And a piece of sky.
Yet that little window became my first quiet introduction to a different life.
It witnessed a girl slowly finding her place in a new world.
It saw her fears become smaller, her smiles become easier, and her heart slowly learn that happiness can be found in the simplest of places.
Years later, I realise the window was never really about what was outside.
It was about what was happening inside me.
A new chapter was unfolding, and I was learning that home is not always a place you arrive at.
Sometimes, it is something you build—slowly, through laughter, love, ordinary days and beautiful little moments that you don’t realise are precious until they become memories.
I don’t remember everything from those days.
But I remember the birds.
I remember the coconut trees moving in the wind.
I remember the little lane below.
I remember the laughter in that room, the warmth of those cuddles, the endless conversations and the peaceful feeling of having nowhere else we needed to be.
And I remember that window.
Perhaps that is why, even today, some windows feel like memories.
And some memories feel like windows.
You look through them once again, and for a moment, you are that girl—lying on a bed beside a coconut tree, listening to birds, watching the sky, surrounded by laughter and love, and wondering what the world beyond that little window would bring.
Perhaps that is the beautiful thing about memories.
They don’t ask us to go back.
They simply remind us that once, for a little while, we were exactly where we were meant to be.
And that little window still holds it all—
a little piece of laughter,
a little piece of love,
a little piece of the sky,
and a beautiful life that once unfolded quietly beside a coconut tree.