Her name is Birdie

A (very) short story about the girl in the window.

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1. ~

Her name is Birdie.

In the morning I see her, sitting in her window. In her hand a mug and, if you’re early enough, with steam rising up from the tea or coffee she sips to ever so often.

She has a game. It’s a game only for her to understand and yet I’ve figured out her secret, kept it while I’ve watched it being played out.

There is always fear crippling inside me, as I take my place at the kitchen counter near the window, the only place where her figure is visible from my tiny studio in this big apartment complex. The fear grows larger for every second, right until my girlfriend kisses my cheek and the door closes behinds her, as she leaves for work. Then the fear almost explodes inside my head.

Because Birdie has a gift; and although I don’t fully understand it, I’ve still figured out the important part. Because her gaze always falls on people with one thing in common. And my girlfriend has been feeling ill lately and that makes me fear.

So today I will leave my spot at the kitchen counter. And I will ring the bell in the apartment across from mine, the one that says “Birdie Daelyx”. And I will ask why her sad eyes has been following the figure leaving my house each day. And I will ask her to stop and to look away.

And I will fall to my knees and beg, because that girl is more important to me than the bright colors of the sunrise that I’ve painted, more important than the words on my walls, the ones that will come to me at night and beg me to be uttered, force me to paint them in all the worlds colors in our room so that when she wakes up in the summer dress she fell asleep in yesterday, because the night wasn’t young anymore when when finally clicked the lock to the apartment open, she will be drowned in my thoughts and she will hold me tight and remind me that no, I am not alone. Not anymore.

And though I am quiet, I will speak all this to the girl in the window across from my studio. And I will see into her grey eyes and see the tears as I realize, that she doesn’t decide. She just tells. And I will grab her hand and watch the mug smash to the ground and I will beg her. And then she will let me into her tiny studio apartment and let me watch her struggle to find a new mug, because all of them is lying smashed on the ground from when she was running out of them and remembered that putting them in the washer was useless, ‘cause she couldn’t read the instruction on the package and was to proud to ask her neighbor for help.

So I will help her wash the mugs and together we make the room smell like lilies, because that’s her favorite flower and the soap that her boyfriend gave her before all the madness and crying, before he left because it was too hard. And I will comfort her and read her the book on the floor because that was her favorite book once upon a time and she will stroke my hair and tell me, that my father-in-law is getting older and giving up, tearing his daughter up and filling the hole with grief and death and that is why she earns a sip each morning.

And we will watch the street below from her window and her lifeless eyes sees the things she don’t, while she drinks her coffee in the morning.

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