He treats me like I’m a lost bird—delicate, unpredictable, something to be coaxed rather than caught. He tiptoes around me, careful not to startle, dropping crumbs of kindness like breadcrumbs on a forest floor. Each gesture is a quiet hope, a silent invitation: Come closer. Trust me. But I fell from my nest too long ago. The fall wasn’t graceful. It shattered something inside me that never quite mended.

I can’t be domesticated. I wasn’t built for cages or soft hands. I’m a creature of wind and ache, a fragile thing with wings too broken to fly and too stubborn to fold. Fear clings to me like feathers soaked in rain—heavy, unshakable.

There’s glass between us now. Not thick enough to forget he’s there, but just enough to remind me I can’t reach him. He watches from the other side, eyes full of longing and confusion, as if wondering why I won’t simply step into the warmth he offers. But I’m trapped in my own silence, fluttering against the invisible wall, a ghost of flight and freedom.

And still, he waits. Still, he hopes. But I remain—lost, scared, untouchable.

©️ Beatriz Esmer