The Cage Speaks

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.

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