I didn’t hear her. I felt her.

Like something shifted in the air. Like someone opened a window inside my ribs and the wind rushed in, uninvited. My eyes weren’t even looking for her, they were just... pulled. Like gravity had grown hands.

She was sitting under the broken streetlight outside the laundromat. Legs pulled up. Hoodie sleeves hiding her hands. Drawing in a notebook that looked older than God. The way her hair fell in her face made it hard to see her clearly, but it didn’t matter. I saw enough. I saw everything.

She didn’t glow. She wasn’t loud. But something about her made the world go quiet. The first thought I had wasn’t she’s beautiful. It was worse. It was: "She’s mine."

I didn’t even know her name. But I already hated the idea that someone else might. She looked like someone who wasn’t used to being seen. And I… I’m the kind of person who only falls for what doesn’t want to be touched.

I watched her for too long. Long enough to learn the rhythm of her pencil. Long enough to imagine what it’d feel like to unzip her silence and climb inside.

You think that’s love? No. That’s need. That’s emptiness trying to fill itself with someone else’s softness. She didn’t look up. She didn’t notice me.

But I felt like I’d already met her in dreams I forgot how to wake from. Like her face was the answer to every question I never asked out loud. Like her stillness had teeth, and I wanted to put my hand in her mouth just to see if she'd bite.

She shifted. Crossed her legs the other way. A small thing. But it shattered something in me. I imagined sitting next to her. I imagined brushing against her on accident. I imagined her looking at me and smiling like she knew. Like she had been waiting. Like we were already a tragedy, just waiting to happen.

But I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there like a broken clock, watching a girl who hadn’t even noticed the storm she’d pulled into orbit.

I didn’t fall in love. I fell into hunger. And I named her. Quietly. To myself.

The Bird.

Because she looked like something I could never hold properly. And still, I swore I would try.

Even if it meant bruising my own hands in the process. Even if it meant bending myself into whatever shape she might need, or worse, whatever shape I thought she might want. Even if it meant pretending not to care while setting every part of me on fire just to keep her warm.

I stood there, still half-hidden, watching her like I was watching some rare, impossible thing. And a sick part of me thought, maybe I could deserve her, if I just stayed quiet enough. If I just watched long enough. If I wanted her deeply enough, painfully enough, like love was a test and suffering made me holy.

She scratched something onto her page with a broken pencil. I wanted to be the page. I wanted her hands on me, even if it meant being torn, crossed out, rewritten.

And right then, standing under that broken streetlight, I promised myself something:

" If she ever looked at me, really looked... i’d never let her go."

She didn't look at me today. Or maybe she did. No. She didn’t. I would’ve felt it. But maybe she looked when I wasn’t looking. God! what if I missed it?

“She saw you. She sees everything.”

“She doesn’t care. She never will.”

“You’re not ready. Not yet. Make yourself better. Sharper.”

“Make her softer. Write her into something that needs you.”

So I opened a blank page. White as her shirt. Empty as my chest. And I began.

---

“She smiled at me.”

Lie. Doesn’t matter. Let her smile. Let her love you, just once, even if it’s pretend. Why lie? She didn’t smile. She wouldn’t. You need this. She needs this. You’re disgusting. I rewrite it.

---

“She looked in my direction, like maybe she remembered me from a dream.”

Yes. Better. That line alone made something in me unclench. For a second. A breath. I kept going.

“She said my name like it was made of sugar.” “She touched my sleeve and everything inside me stopped.” “She told me I felt like a poem someone forgot to finish.”

More lies. But they felt warm. They felt like hope with teeth.

---

“Write her into something safe.” “Write her into something real.” “No. Write her into something that bleeds for you.” “She’s too wild. She’s not yours.” “Make her yours.” “Don’t ruin her.” “She’s already ruined. Look at her. She’s cracked in all the right places.”

My fingers trembled. I couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion or excitement. She was becoming mine, on the page, at least. And if I wrote her enough… maybe she'd bleed into real life. Maybe she'd begin to see me.

---

But the poem I wrote turned darker. Uncontrolled. Slipping from love into ache.

“She begged me not to leave. Said the silence without me was unbearable.” “She wrapped her arms around me like I was oxygen.” “She said I was the only one who never asked her to be softer.”

None of it happened. But I believed it. I needed to believe it. Because if I stop believing, then she’s just a girl. Just a girl who didn’t notice me. And I am just a boy who noticed too much.

---

“You want her.” “You love her. “You want to own her.” “You want her locked in a glass box with a slit just big enough for your hand.” “You’d feed her love like it’s meat.” “You’re not in love. You’re starving.”

I pressed the backspace key. But the thoughts stayed.

---

“She came to my house in the rain, just to see me.” “She curled up in my bed like it belonged to her.” “She told me I make the dark feel warm.”

I wrote her again. And again. Version after version. Each one more desperate. Each one closer to obsession. Each one like trying to sculpt water into a perfect face, and then punch it for not staying still.

---

I printed one version and read it out loud. It made me feel like I was holding her. Like I had finally caged the wind. But then the panic came.

"What if she never reads this?” “What if she does and laughs?” “What if she finds it beautiful?” “What if she runs?” “What if she never knew how loud she is in your head?”

I folded the paper and hid it under my mattress. Because that’s what I do. I write her. I worship her. I ruin her. And then I bury the evidence.

---

“This isn’t love.” “It’s becoming something else.” “You’re becoming something else.”

But still, I opened a new page. Because she didn’t look at me today. And I need her to look tomorrow. Even if it’s only in the version I control.

I told myself I’d stop writing her. I told myself, this is the last time. And then she looked at me. Not long. Not even deep. But it happened.

She was passing by, her eyes skating over the floor like she didn’t owe it anything. And then they brushed over me. Just once.

"She saw me."

"She saw me."

"She saw me."

And the cage inside me shattered with such violent joy it sounded like laughter.

---

I didn’t smile back. I didn’t move. I just let it happen.

But inside:

“You’re not ready.” “Say something, say something, say something—” “She’ll forget you if you don’t.” “Be normal. Be soft. Be likeable. Be not-you.” “Don’t scare her. But don’t let her go.” “You are made of iron, but she walks like wind."

---

That night, I wrote nothing. I sat on the floor and tried to breathe. And the cage, the one I pretended I’d broken out of, began to speak.

“You want to keep her, don’t you?” “You want her to look only at you.” “You want her to say your name like it was always hers to say.” “You want her to notice how quiet the world is without you in it.”

It whispered sweet filth in my ear. “She is a bird.

You are a boy with nothing but hands. So build a trap made of sentences. Lure her in with softness. Close the door with obsession.”

---

The next time I saw her, she was sitting alone. Reading. Again. The chair beside her was empty. And the word fate clung to my ribs like rot. I walked past her. Too scared to sit. But I left a note on the edge of her book. Small. Folded. It said only:

“You looked at me yesterday. Thank you for that.”

That’s all. And still, my heart felt like it was crawling out of my mouth.

"Now she knows.” “Now she’ll never un-know.” “Now she’ll run.” “Or maybe… maybe she’ll come closer.” “You’ve opened the cage now.” “Let’s see who flies out.”

---

I walked away. Didn’t turn back. Didn’t look. But I felt her read it. Felt it like heat at the back of my skull.

“Did she smile?” “Did she fold it away like something precious?” “Did she tear it?” “Did she whisper your name in her head?” “Is she writing back right now?”

The hope was a sickness.

---

That night, the cage wouldn’t shut up.

“What if she wants to be written?” “What if she’s been waiting for someone to see her like this?” “What if she thinks about you when she’s alone?” “What if her silence is a signal?” “What if you’re wrong?” “What if you’re always wrong?”

And in a quieter voice:

“What if you ruin it?” “What if you already have?”

---

Still no words from her. No sign. But she didn’t throw the note away. I know because I checked. Yes, I checked. Yes, I circled back and watched from the stairs like a villain in a book. She folded it. Tucked it in her book like a pressed flower. That meant something. Didn’t it?

"It’s beginning.” “You’re in now. You’re inside her story.” “Just don’t let her write the ending.”

---

And so, the cage kept speaking. And I kept listening.

Because for the first time. She looked. She read. She kept. That was enough to feed me for a thousand empty days. And maybe tomorrow… She’ll say something back. Even if it’s just a word. Even if it kills me.