The final minutes of Through My Window: Looking at You feel like someone is slowly, deliberately ripping your heart out while whispering “it’s okay, they’re happy now.”

You’ve spent three films—nine hours of your life—watching Raquel Mendoza and Ares Hidalgo tear each other apart and stitch themselves back together with nothing but raw desire, stupid mistakes, and the kind of love that makes you believe in something bigger than yourself. You’ve screamed at the screen during every breakup, cried ugly tears when Yoshi died, held your breath every time Ares climbed that damn window. And then, after all the chaos, the snow, the almost-drowning, the book launch speech that wrecked you completely, the screen fades to black.

Five years later.

They’re moving into an apartment together. Not some grand penthouse paid for by Hidalgo money. Just a normal, sun-lit place in Barcelona with too many boxes and not enough shelves. Ares has a beard now, soft and a little unkempt, glasses perched on his nose like he actually reads medical journals for fun. Raquel’s hair has blonde highlights catching the afternoon light, and she’s laughing—really laughing—while trying to assemble a bookshelf that clearly hates her. Their friends are there. Artemis is carrying his toddler daughter on his shoulders. Apolo is stealing snacks. Even Anna shows up with a shy smile and a housewarming plant, because time really does heal some wounds.

There’s no dialogue in the last ninety seconds. Just the piano swelling, the camera drifting over small details: Ares’ hand on the small of Raquel’s back, her head resting against his chest for a second while they both look at the same old photo from their first summer, the way he kisses her temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world now. No more sneaking. No more hiding. No more “we can’t.” Just them. Together. Finally.

And then the credits roll.

That’s it.

No wedding scene. No pregnancy reveal. No dramatic proposal on the beach where it all began. No epilogue where they’re old and gray and still stupidly in love. Netflix has said it, the director has said it, Clara Galle and Julio Peña have said it in every interview since 2024: this is the end. There will be no Part 4. No spin-off. No “ten years later” special. The story stops here, in the quiet of a half-unpacked apartment on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

And Hương, if you’re reading this in Hanoi right now at 4:51 PM on a random January evening, rewatching that final scene for the hundredth time with tears streaming down your face like the rest of us—tell me you don’t feel robbed.

Because this ending is perfect. Devastatingly, heartbreakingly perfect.

It’s perfect because it refuses to give us the fantasy version we think we want. We wanted the big gestures, the fireworks, the Instagram-worthy moments. But real love—the kind that survives grief, distance, family wars, and your own worst versions of yourselves—doesn’t live in grand gestures anymore. It lives in the quiet. In choosing to stay when the passion cools and the fights get smaller and the world stops feeling like it’s ending every time you kiss.

They earned this. Every painful second of the trilogy led to this soft, ordinary happiness. And by giving it to us in a flash-forward—by letting us see the destination without dragging us through every mile of the journey—the filmmakers trusted us to believe they made it. That after everything, they really, truly chose each other. Not because fate pushed them together. Not because the sex was too good to quit. But because they grew up and decided this was the life they wanted to build.

And yet.

Yet it hurts so much because we fell in love with the chaos. We were addicted to the push-and-pull, the window climbs at 3 AM, the screaming matches in the rain, the way Ares looked at Raquel like she was the only real thing in his curated, suffocating world. We wanted more of that specific kind of pain-pleasure only they could give us. We wanted to watch them fight for each other again and again, because seeing them win felt like proof that love could survive anything.

Giving us domestic bliss and then taking the possibility of more away forever? That’s cruel. Beautifully, exquisitely cruel.

Clara Galle said in an interview last year that the ending made her cry on set because “it felt like saying goodbye to someone you really loved.” Julio Peña admitted he still can’t watch the moving-in scene without getting emotional. Even Ariana Godoy, the woman who started it all on Wattpad, said she’s at peace with it ending here—because Raquel finally got the real-life love story she always wrote about but never believed she deserved.

So maybe that’s the answer.

This isn’t a tease. It’s mercy.

They let Raquel and Ares grow up so we wouldn’t have to watch them get ruined by the Hollywood machine—stretched thin across sequels, forced into new dramas, new love triangles, new tragedies just to keep us hooked. They gave them the ending we all secretly want for ourselves: someone who stays. Someone who chooses you on the days when you’re impossible. Someone who, after all the fire, is still there when the smoke clears.

The window is closed now. Not broken. Not cracked open for one last look. Closed. On purpose.

And if that isn’t the most romantic thing this franchise ever did, I don’t know what is.

Raquel and Ares are happy. They’re together. They made it.

Let them go.