Not Cringy Title

I don't often get the urge to write, it's a specific mood I have to be in to want it.
I really do love literature, plays such as The Crucible (Arthur Miller) specifically.

I'd love some advice on my writing, always wanted to ask for it before but don't quite have the nerve to request it from someone in person.

This is the start of a stalker(ish) story, involving a currently unnamed girl who is being watched by a stranger. It has a partially-omniscient narrator and I believe I'll use a linear structure for the most part.

Here's my actual... Blurb?

Looking in, through the simple, white frame window, he saw how broken she was. He rested one finger gently onto the glass, leaving a print upon the freshly cleaned surface which just hours earlier was coated with debris of unknown origin. He appreciated the balance between smooth and strong not only in the glass; but the girl too. Her eyes looked blankly up at the ceiling. Her arm sprawled out, trailing over mattress and blue-tinted sheet, to the border, over the edge, her fingers traced the detail within the woodwork of the handmade mahogany frame. She had found herself here after a conversation on the walk home from college. The talk was nothing new, the usual drama between friends, a situation resolved with a text filled with words dusted over by false promise and followed by an entourage of rainbow love hearts and kisses.

This concept, however, had started her fall into a slip and slide of darkness, lost friendships that could not be fixed with her most sincere apology, even when it was not her place, tormented her. These were the thoughts that made her seaweed coloured eyes glaze over for minutes on end, tears swirling in the white abyss of her sclera. Unfocused on the world around her, she was living in memories now and the man smiled in, his heart warming at how small and fragile she seemed in this light, how exposed she became when she thought herself alone.