I Look in People’s Window

I often look in people’s windows, like I’m some deranged weirdo, as I have this feeling of longing — for something, for someone I have lost. Somehow, seeing people laugh at their tables, children play with their fables, and lovers mingle under moonlit gables gives me a sense of indescribable comfort. However, whenever I would meet people’s eyes, mine would quickly turn away to avoid the inevitable — seeing their prophecy.

For as long as I could remember, I have borne a peculiar gift, or perhaps a curse. Whenever I gaze into someone’s eyes, I see a glimpse of their destinies — their prophecies.

“He who loves dancing shall lose rhythm in their leg, forever stilled by the crash of fate.”

“Never shall she cradle a child in arms.”

“She who cherishes her guiding light shall see it fade, leaving her in solitude’s shadow.”

Among the many faces I’ve seen through the window, one appeared more frequently than any other. He is a sculptor who moved from house to house, creating sculptures infused by a part of his soul. His gaze met mine, multiple times. Yet, his future remained veiled to me. I couldn’t see his prophecy.

One evening, when the streets were dimly lit and people ran for cover as the clouds released a gentle cascade of drops, I took shelter under the awning of a quaint sculptor’s studio.

Amidst the atelier, I caught sight of him. A strand of his hair, as dark as the night sky, rested across his nose bridge. His hands skillfully molded clay, breathing life into it.

Our eyes met through the rain-streaked window. Instead of looking away, I held his gaze. His eyes, like the serene expanse of a sky, hold the depths of the ocean. It’s like I’m being engulfed by it, that I might drown. There was no prophecy, no vision of a destined end.

To me, he remains a mystery. Who is he? Why can’t I see through him? Perhaps he has something to do with this ability of mine?

I felt a strange pull drawing me toward the door. With a hesitant step, I pushed it open. The chime above the door jingled softly, announcing my presence. He looked up, a curious smile playing on his lips.

“Hi,” he said, his voice smooth and inviting, with a tinge of mischief.

“Hi,” I replied. “I’m Ava.”

“I’m Damian,” he responded, wiping his hands on a cloth before extending one towards me.

“I’ve seen you around.”

“Uh, Yes,” I admitted, a bit embarrassed.

“Did I seem strange? I just have this habit.”

“Not at all. I’ve often wondered what you see from out there.”

“A lot…”

“… but mostly, I’ve wondered about you.”

“Me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

“Tell me more,” he said, leaning casually against a workbench.

“I just find your work fascinating. The way you bring life to these sculptures.”

Damian’s expression softened, a blend of curiosity and understanding.

“Thanks. It’s a passion of mine. Would you like to see more?”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

He led me around the studio, showing me his works in various stages of completion. As he explained each piece, his enthusiasm was contagious. I found myself wanting to find out more about him. There must be a reason as to why I can’t unveil him. Perchance he holds all the answers I’ve been seeking all my life.

“Damian, could you create a sculpture for me?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “For you? Sure, I’d love to. What do you have in mind?”

I thought for a moment, wanting to choose something meaningful. “How about a sculpture of a phoenix? Rising from the ashes.”

Damian’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Oh, a phoenix. I’d be honored to create that for you.”

“I’d love to see the process if you don’t mind. Maybe you could work on it at my place?”

“I’d like that,” he said, his voice softening.

The next day, he arrived at my house with his tools and materials. He had a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a wooden box in his hands, he also brought a portable turntable. He set up a small workspace in my living room, carefully arranging his tools.

“Woah, you really came prepared.”

“Of course. A sculptor always needs his tools,” he replied with a grin.

Our conversations flowed naturally, from light-hearted banter and deeper topics. Days turned into weeks, and Damian’s visits to my house became more frequent. He would bring me fruits while I baked pastries for him, gestures of mutual appreciation. I would watch him perform his craft as he sought my opinion about it. During the weekend, his break, he would still visit me at my café.

“Are you closing now?

“No, I’m just stepping out. I have a lot of part-timers today.”

“Oh, perfect. Do you wanna go watch the sunset with me?”

I smiled and nodded.

We took a stroll in the park. The rustling leaves and birdsong filled the air. We sat on a bench as the sky painted itself in hues of pink and purple, and the day bids farewell.

I looked at him — maybe too long — because he returned my gaze with a questioning smile.

“What if I tell you I can see people’s prophecies?” I asked.

He looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“You can see people’s destinies?” he asked, not with disbelief, but with a gentle understanding.

“Yes, through their eyes. You probably think I’m crazy.” I chuckled.

“No. I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” he said softly.

“But I can’t see yours,” I confessed, my eyes searching his for answers.

“Everyone else’s future is clear to me, but yours is a blank slate.”

Damian’s eyes widened, his curiosity piqued.

“That’s… intriguing,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“Well, I’ve experienced some peculiar things myself too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had a dream. One that feels so real. After that I sculpted my favorite creation of all, the one I told you about.”

“Oh yeah, the big sculpture of Dian Masalanta.”

Our conversation left me with more questions than answers. We spent the rest of the evening talking and enjoying each other’s company. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye.

Weeks slipped into months. One night, as the world hushed around us and we sat together under a blanket of stars, with waves gently kissing the shore, his eyes locked onto mine.

“Ava, what if the reason you can’t see my prophecy is because we’re just about to make it… together.”

My eyes widen in astonishment, the love in his eyes reflecting mine.

“Your name is carved in my heart, Ava.”

And so, we loved. Among the stars, we traced the dreams we shared. Through each shared sunrise and whispered nightfall, our hearts entwined, speaking a language known only to our souls. With every lingering touch and stolen glance, time paused, and the world held its breath to witness the poetry of our love. He sculpted moments of serenity, and I forged delicate warmth and sweetness.

Months stretched into a year, and as we sat together in the warm glow of a candlelit dinner, I found myself lost in his eyes. And then I saw it — a vision unlike any I had seen before unfolded before me. It wasn’t a glimpse into the future but rather a peek into the past.

Long ago, he was a poet, a mortal who sculpted words with the ink of a pluma. She was Dian Masalanta, her name meaning “destruction is there,” a goddess of love and ancestral wisdom in Philippine mythology, tasked with nurturing love among mortals. Despite embodying love itself, she was forbidden to love — her power to bless weakened if she did. Yet, her own heart betrayed her divine role

As she wandered through the forest, sent to the human world for a mission, she saw him at a window of a home on the forest’s edge, composing his sonnets. The golden strands of his hair were kissed by the sun’s warmth, and his eyes, the color of a serene lake under an open sky, met hers.

Once, while she fed the woodland birds, he approached and stood beside her. He was supposed to feed them too, as he often did, but she had already taken care of it. She was cautious and aloof, for she saw humans as deceptive and emotional creatures, unlike her own kind.

“Oh, you already fed them,” he remarked with a soft chuckle.

She turned to him and he flashed a smile. “Looks like they already grew fond of you.”

“I call the one with bright wings ‘Hartsy’, and the little one ‘Bibi’.”

She laughed, thinking he was a poet but had a bad taste in pet names. He shared a laugh with her. As days passed, she observed him from afar: He played with children, giving them treats his face lit with delight as the kids laughed. He wrote poems for the elderly near his house. With women, his manner was always gentle and respectful. He was a mansion with a view, piercing through her heart.

They met more often, and their conversations grew into a friendship that blossomed into love. They loved each other, hidden from the eyes of the gods. But secrets have a way of surfacing. Their love has shaken the heavens and the earth, and the gods discovered their forbidden romance. In their wrath, the divine council decreed punishment — their prophecy.

“When love binds their hearts, his life fades away. Only in love’s absence will he find life anew.”

He died because of their love, a sacrifice to the cruel prophecy that bound them. In her anguish, she swore an oat, “I swear, one day I will see the future to save my lover from its oppressive fate.”

Damian sensed my distress and held me tightly.

“Are you okay, my love? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

“When love binds their hearts, his life fades away. Only in love’s absence will he find life anew.” I said, my voice trembling.

“What do you mean? Did you…”

I told him everything. Tears welled up in my eyes as the realization sank in.

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

He cupped my face in his hands, his touch gentle and reassuring.

“We’ll find a way, my love. We’ll rewrite our story.”

I wanted to break ties with him, to save him, to not lose him completely, but I couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it. He held me tightly, over and over again.

But fate went along with the plans.

The earth drank deeply of the heavens’ tears as he stood on the other side of the road, waving and smiling at me. As he comes running over to me with his face full of love and life, a truck collided with him, draining the warmth of his body I had once embraced.

I held him, a crimson river flowing through my hands and clothes.

“I love you, Ava. And I always will,” he smiled at me with reassurance as life drained from his eyes.

Tears streamed down my face as I released a piercing cry.

I am cursed, just as Eve was bitten.

At his burial, the sky wept in empathy, as if sharing my sorrow. I knelt upon the damp ground, my head facing the sky, hands clasped tightly in a desperate plea to the heavens above.

“Please change the prophecy!” I begged through choked sobs.

“To whom must I plead to undo this fate?!”

I looked down, closing my eyes against the cruelty of fate, tears tracing silent paths down my cheeks. And it unfolded before me — my prophecy.

“Love’s touch is not your destined path to tread.”

With a sigh, my eyes grew weary, shedding no more tears.

“Let it be us, just once,” I whispered.

I was a protector of lovers, an entity full of love, yet I couldn’t even protect my lover. Why am I not meant for love when I have so much to give?

I thought I could save him, but he’s gone again.

Even after his death, I wandered the streets, peering into the lives of strangers, searching for a glimpse of the man I had loved for centuries. I continued to look in people’s windows. What if his eyes looked up and met mine, one more time?

・・・

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s “I Look in People’s Window” and “The Prophecy.”