There is a little bird that greets me from a tree outside my window. I see him there every morning, a bright red speck in a forest of black branches. Each day we observe each other, neither saying a word.

Does he know I see him?

Does he recognize me?

I make the morning coffee and try not to let it burn. (Sometimes it’s hard to control things that often burn.) He flits from window to window, sometimes in pace with me, sometimes away from me.

My windows are sealed. If they weren’t, I’d pop one open and offer him something—a shred of bread crust or a little red blueberry. But these walls do not give to the whims of birds and girls. They do not give at all. Sometimes I wonder.

Does he want to come in?

Would he speak to me if he could?

The burnt coffee gives way to burnt water gives way to burnt tongue. I tear croissants from the corner market but face away from the glass so he can’t see me indulging. So he doesn’t have to watch.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Perhaps he only sees his own reflection from the outside, not me at all. Maybe to him, he is courting a lovely red bird, just like him. Maybe his eyes are full of stars too small for me to see but that sparkle just as fiercely as anyone else’s.

Maybe he’s blind.

I build stories around him over the breakfast table, imagining the places he goes when I’m at work and when night falls. Wondering what brings him back to my window every morning despite having no nest, no mate, no children, no stars big enough to see. What’s the point of being a little bird with no purpose but the mechanisms within that demand he survive?

Does he know what he is?

Does he know what I am?

You’re not so different, you and I, I would say to him if I could. We’re not so different, me and you. I think about the morning I won’t see him. Surely I’ll outlive him someday—or him me—or maybe I’ll move far away to a place where no birds like him could ever go.

Not on purpose. Sometimes things like that happen.

Will you miss me?

My spoon plays an erratic song against the mug, like a single wind chime battering the gutter. I pit my burnt tongue against burnt water. I build up collections of things I know and do not know, and I lie them all flat out on the page.

He’s satisfied by my display, or bored of it, and flutters off. Maybe he’ll stare into another window, into another person’s life for an hour or two. Maybe it doesn’t mean a thing.