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hello silly bird,
What do you think is the point of a tragedy? Maybe it’s to teach us lessons or to make us feel more human. I don’t know, honestly. It feels a little cruel but compelling in its cruelness, in the way that you can see shards of yourself amidst the rubble. I think you’re like a spot of sun though, maybe even a whole tiny sun in a tiny little galaxy that's centred around your smile. You spread warmth. You protect those around you. You’re just so… bright. Too bright maybe, burning everything around you that gets too close. It could happen to me too, I’m sure, burned just by approaching your atmosphere. Love and pain all in one neat little package. Things have been rough though, I know. Maybe you’re a dimmer sun then, brightness splintered a little under the weight of a harried life. If you got any brighter then I’d need sunglasses just to look at you, so maybe it’s better this way. A worthy sacrifice, I suppose. Let’s chase away the clouds soon though, okay? Then maybe you can get me those glasses. I deserve at least that much for putting up with you after all this time. It’s your fault I’m like this anyway. You loon. You crow. You total flamingo. Actually, what is your favourite bird? Do you have one? I like those tiny ones that hop around the ground. They make me smile. I'm glad I can smile so much recently. You’re a part of that. Tell me more about all your favourite things next time.
your constellation,
pilot
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hi strawberry,
I wanted to talk to someone but you know how things are here. It’s hard to find someone to talk to. I don’t think anyone deserves to be saddled with my thoughts. I try so hard to be a moodmaker, you know, because I want things to be easier for everyone else. I hope you don’t mind receiving my letters. Why strawberry, you may ask? It’s because to me your eyes, somehow both red and green all at once, have always struck me greatly. I saw forests and fire in them. I saw sprawling fields of strawberries in them. And for me, though I'm not sure if it’s fair to decide for myself, I guess I’d like to be the blueberry to your strawberry. I mean, how many other blue things exist? What else was I supposed to be? Mould? No, thanks, I’m good. I like strawberries a great deal, but they’ve always been a pretty rare treat here. It’s fitting. Strawberries are only for good days when there are extra rations to go around. Even then, I’d rather give them to my brothers than eat them myself. I guess the memories of your strawberry gaze is something that’s mine alone though. You're my favourite strawberry. Maybe I’m biassed, but when I think about your kaleidoscope eyes and your summer smile I like to imagine that you might like blueberries too. Do you? I really hope so. Tell me next time we meet.
as always,
blueberry
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good morrow bird boy,
Funny greeting, right? Do you like it? Sorry, I’ve just been in a weird mood lately. Felt like trying something new. I've been spending too much time with my mom sorting out all this bureaucracy shit. Bad vibes all around. It hasn’t been great for either of us. It’s not hard to be pleasant if you really try, even if it's all a lie. Somehow she fails though. Every single time. Somehow she finds a new way to fail me. Always. Without fail. I cannot leave her though, not completely, because she is still my family and that still means something. I’m not sure if it would be better or not if she tried. Love is not unconditional, but honour and duty are sewn deep into my bones.
Being with her is an exercise in hunger. It’s weird to me. I did not realise until I had a free day to spend with her, until they began letting us slowly trickle back to the towns and villages we came from, that I had trained it out of myself. “I’m hungry,” she said to me mildly, spending some of my reparation funds on a loaf of fresh bread. I don't know if there's enough money in the world that can heal everyone's wounds, but I guess they can’t do anything else for us. She reached out towards me but I did not speak, simply shaking my head no when she offered me a piece. I'm a little too stubborn, I suppose, refusing to eat the product of victory. But then, as I said before, I have trained the hunger out of me. It’s something I had to get rid of to keep fighting every day. Now it's just something I have to live with.
Call me crazy, but the only time I feel hungry is when I imagine your face and think of your eyes, storm grey-blue and filled with fire. That is how I choose to remember them, but sometimes I play with the idea, maybe instead they are a cool electric blue or a deep, deep royal ultramarine. I have never quite decided what shade fits you best, going off of the blue haze which is all I can truly remember. They’re all pretty nice, aren’t they? Your eyes, bloodshot and brilliant, the ones whose eyelids I caressed softly with my hand as I shut them. How silly of you, my bird, to have fallen asleep with your eyes wide open last time we met. It’s a little freaky, you know? One day you’re going to give someone a heart attack. I always wondered how your eyes don’t dry out like that. I’m getting off track though. I am just so tired of fighting. I thought I’d be free once the war was over, but it seems like things will always be a little harder than I’d like. I want to hold your hand in mine as I fall asleep. I want to hear your voice, the loudest it's ever been allowed to be. I want us to be free. Soon, perhaps, since they're beginning to let us out of our cages. I want to be with you. I want to fly with you, to repurpose my pitiful cockpit and return it to being a place built of love. No more missions. I’m only going to fly on my own time now. I heard that letters are like time capsules, or maybe that people are for each other. I hope if I ever read this letter again that I will see your smiling face cupped in the palms of my hands and I will be at peace.
rest well,
pilot
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hi again strawberry,
Life is fucking hard, isn’t it? Hope you’ve been doing ok. My hair has been growing out a lot during my time in the field. Bet I could do some sick headbanging now. The others, they tell me to cut it already. They tell me that I'll get sucked up in a plane engine or yanked back, caught unaware by someone rushing up behind me. That would be funny though, wouldn’t it? I bet they’d put me in the newspaper or something. Front page material, baby! It would make for one hell of a story.
To me, it's like a compromise. I will not cut it until I return home. It will be my first step of healing, cutting all the pain and remnants of this war away. It’s a promise to myself. I’ve started tying it up though as a compromise for the others. I always wanted to be a doctor, you know, and it’s good lab safety etiquette to tie back your hair. That’s what I tell myself anyway. I’m just practising for the future! I’ve always practised for it, training my body before I had to overwrite it all with this harder, heavier training. Maybe I still could have been one had my life not been consumed by this fire all around us. There’s no room for wannabe doctors when there’s so much at stake though. I had to leave school and come here. Now I'm nothing but a footsoldier with hair like a hurricane. Soon it will be long enough to braid back. Maybe I should do something fun, add a few feathers or something like that. I keep hearing people say that it is my weakness, that someone will use it to catch me off guard. It gets a little annoying sometimes, as if they don’t trust me to fight back. The enemy would need to get close enough first to pull it off. Within killing range. Now that would be a sight, wouldn’t it? I wonder if I’ll meet someone who can do it. I’d like to see them try. I’ll cut them all down myself. Easy as.
till tomorrow,
blueberry
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sorry bird,
I know it’s been a while since I’ve written. I’m just so fucking tired but I don’t want to say that. I don’t want to write about that. I don’t need pity from anyone, much less from you. It would make us both feel worse. I just thought that life would get easier once the fighting ended and it’s not. It’s grating in a different way. It’s been doing a lot of paperwork and hearing speeches and waiting for orders.
Take last week for example. The corporal, he talks too much to people who care too little. I've never really understood it. It's like he tries to justify himself to people who have no idea that there's anything to judge. It annoys me a little, the way his words fly so freely. I’m tired of hearing it. I've outgrown trying to get everyone to like me, so maybe that's why it continues to annoy me. Why should I care about the thoughts of strangers? Why give them more ammunition against me? I have gotten stronger over these last few years. They can throw as many stones at me as they like, and I will simply shape myself to dodge them. I'm not the same person I used to be, the one who would shatter under all of that pressure. I guess I have your support to thank for that, at least in part. You're like the gold that’s glued up my broken pieces.
Anyway, I’m getting off track like usual. I really don’t get that guy. The last thing I’m going to do is justify who I am. I don’t have time for that. It’s not worth explaining to people who don’t care. Besides, everyone knows the hardest hits always come from the people who know you. The ones who learn about all your favourite things just so they can use it against you the moment something goes wrong. I'm not really trying to, but I think I've shut out enough people that no one is even trying. Oops. It’s better that way though. Easier. Fewer people can hurt me. Maybe I should try to be more vulnerable though. I know you’d say that. I’m a work in progress, okay? I’ll see how I feel tomorrow. No promises, but I’ll try. I'll think about it.
stubbornly,
pilot
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what’s up strawberry,
If you say the sky, I’ll kill you. Lovingly, but I’ll still kill you. I met some girls recently at our most stop at a village. I know, right? A real village. Holy shit. We’re really living it up sometimes. Now before you go off cursing me and calling me a pervert and a blaggard and a loser, it's not like I did anything with them. One of them was so delicate that I felt bad even looking at her. We’re just cut from different cloth. She was all twee and soft like lace and tulle and candy floss threads, the kind of flower that’ll dissolve if it rains too hard.
I’d almost forgotten that people can still be like that. She was the kind of person who covered her open mouth with her hand when she laughed, when she ate, when she was surprised. She was sweet and reminded me of everything I cannot bear to be. It made me miss you, strangely enough. I left dinner early to write this letter as soon as I could. My hands just felt itchy and aching to claw over these little scraps of you I keep close to my chest. How are you? What are you doing? You always have so many things to hide, but you wouldn't let anyone know quite so easily even if they know that much. You never show your hand, so I always have to imagine what cards you hold. I feel like you’re the kind of person who doubles over from laughter and bleeds out the joy stored deep inside your chest. Are you or am I just projecting? Maybe I'm misremembering, but I’d be okay if you proved me wrong. I want to see you again. When I close my eyes after a hard day, that's the thought that comes to mind first, a fuzzy outline of your smile. Let’s meet again as soon as possible, okay?
your delicate flower (haha),
blueberry
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dear bird,
I’m not sure if we’ll ever see each other again. I wish I had said more to you when I had the chance. It’s a scary thought, isn’t it? I hope it doesn't come true. Knocking on wood now. I refuse to manifest it.
Sometimes I go to sleep praying that I’ll forget about everything come morning. Everything but you. I’m not sure if I should let you go or not because sometimes it feels like clinging to you only drags me deeper into the darkness. But then there are times when I'm bathed in the deep of the night and the only brightness, however low it may be, is the thought of you. You and your silly sunlight. I don’t know if that means I should push you away or not. It’s just another truth that’s been bound to my life. You are always with me, for better and for worse. That’s why I know last time won’t be our last chance.
prove me wrong,
pilot
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hey strawberry,
I need you to back me up here. The other guys here keep telling me that dreams are for people with too much heart and too little hope. We don't have time for either on the battlefield. That’s a sad way to live though, right? I can’t really tell anyone about you because they’ll curse me for being weak, so I save it for those sombre moments where the chill of loss runs through the whole camp. No one gives you shit then. I save it for these moments when I can come here and write to you. I talk about you sometimes in distanced tones, a sketch without any colour added to it. No time for childhood sweethearts, they still tell me, jeering at the thought of waiting for someone for so long. I’ve never felt like I was waiting for you though.
It’s not like I don’t understand them. I guess I believe it too in a way, at least a little bit. It’s better to do something productive with your time and all that. You know me though and I’m pretty fucking stubborn, so I'll still keep writing to you. I’ll die with a fucking pen in my pocket for all I care. Fuck this war and all this soldier shit. Alien invasion or robots or whatever the hell they think they’re fighting, I don’t care. I hate being a piece in whatever twisted little game they’re playing, but I was born in the palm of a world that consumes everything around it so it seems like this is my pre-written destiny. It is what it is. I’ve long since accepted that. If I have to fight, then I'm going to be the best fucking piece out there. I stay here for the sake of my home, for my family and for you. I don't care if that makes me weak. I'm not some hero who’s going to roll over and bark just because someone says it makes me stronger. What do they even know about me, right? I’ll get stronger on my own. You make me stronger on your own just by existing. They’re going to have to kill me before I give you up. You're the only dream worth fighting for. Not theirs. Not anyone else’s.
with fire,
blueberry
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bird,
Maybe now that this war is finally ending, I’ll finally get another chance to see you again. Wouldn’t that be nice? I miss you.
yours, pilot
-
how’s it going strawberry,
One of my friends- I’ve told you about the guys I've met here before, right? I must have. Anyway Shinri, his name is Shinri, and he got a package from back home today. He's the tall one that's good to me, the one with the long-ish hair. Someone sent back his letters and broke things off. It's fucking cruel man, as if we're not fighting for our lives out here. Save it for another day or something. I’d like to go give them a piece of mind if I could, but I think it would make him feel worse if I did anything like that, so I just gave him some of my rations and a hug. A little extra food for the soul never hurts, right? He's strong, but he doesn't deserve to go through more of that shit. Good vibes only, brother. I’d consider playing matchmaker for him as a little joke to lift his spirits, but there aren't a lot of good choices here. We’re all just some little fucking dudes battered down by some big, big fight that's out of our control. I know you wouldn't do that to me, but the thought is a little scary. Love you. Love you for real. Love you so much. Please never stop existing. I’m gonna go see Shinri now and give him another hug. Maybe I’ll drag him out fishing during our next free period to take his mind off things. It’s the least I can do. Fishing is so fun! You’d love it. We don’t even need a boat for it, just a couple rods and a nice stretch of water. I’ll take you some time. See you in my dreams.
all my love,
blueberry
-
good evening bird,
Everything going okay? I’ve been fine for the most part. I ripped my pants a while back, cut them up at the knees while doing drills. They're army-issued, the same cut, trim, and style that’s copy pasted over every soldier out here. I kept wearing them though and watched the hole get bigger and bigger, eventually swallowing up my kneecap in its giant maw. The drills stay the same day in and day out, but the hole gets bigger. It’s proof of the passage of time in a way. Maybe I should get rid of them soon, but I don't want to commit to it just yet. It's weird. They're not even my pants to mourn. I didn't buy them. I don't get it. Why should I care? Why can't I let go? I'm still feeling a little reluctant, so I’m keeping them for now.
Update: I'm picking up the pen again a week later. Bettel came to visit, told me that it's not good to hold onto decaying things like that. I told you about him before, the nice one with the bright hair and the pretty eyes. He’s like my dearest brother and probably the person I’ve talked to the most here. I love him to bits, but I don't think he gets why I can’t let go of things. So yeah, I threw away those busted pants in the end because he kept insisting that I really ought to do something about it and I still respect him even when I don't always agree with him. That’s just part of love, isn’t it? I thought about you when I did it though. I’m sorry, that’s weird too, isn't it? Why would you care about some pants that I can't even wear anymore? I have nothing else to talk about though and I guess I just miss you. I just wanted to talk about something. That part isn't weird, at least not to me. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I’ll keep missing you. More than anything, I want to argue with you over shit that doesn't really matter. That's how I say I love you. Wishing you the best.
talk again soon,
pilot
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hi strawberry,
It’s a little late to be writing, but I don’t really have time elsewhere. Because I trust you, I’ll tell you a little secret. Not everything about my life has been all peaches and roses. I mean, beyond the obvious stuff. At least it prepped me decently for all this training. I’ll give you some advice because I’m feeling generous and magnanimous and all round pretty fucking cool. When someone’s going to hit you, protect the most important place first. For me, by reflex, that’s my face. For you, well, I hope you don’t even have to think about it in the first place. I know you’re going to think I’m fucking shallow for saying that, but hear me out here. As long as you only get hit in easily covered places, no one will know any better. It’s the sweetest form of lying, as much about protecting others as it is about protecting yourself. Maybe that’s just because of the kinds of fights I got into when I was younger though. By all means, protect your vital regions first. I think I’m the only person who should ever have to suffer because of my own actions, so I have more important things to protect. Important people. I’ve never told anyone that much before. I trust you'll keep your mouth shut.
I guess now that I’m here it doesn’t matter as much since everyone knows we’re always fighting here, but I still find myself protecting my face first out of habit. It’s just a part of me now, I guess. I really hope you don’t have to worry much about fighting people though. Consider it your special privilege to learn a little bit more about me. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you worry about me though. Don’t. I’m a strong guy and a few little nicks and bruises never hurt anyone for long. I just wanted to tell you the truth, that’s all. Someone out there deserves to know and who better than you? Short letter today since I have to go to sleep. Love you. Honk shoo… honk shoo… mimimimi…
sweet dreams,
blueberry
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to the brightest bird,
No new updates from me, not really anyway. My days have been pretty normal here, intrusive thoughts aside. You know, it’s weird. I was staring at the bundles of food and water they provide for us, both a blessing and a curse, and wondered how we’d know if they’ve been tampered with. It's a silly thought to have, utterly useless. I can't help it though! Maybe it's a sign of how things are going though, that even that thought doesn't stop me at all. I scarf it all down like it’s my last meal because who really knows when it will be. I hope when I die that it will be with a full stomach. I know that's kinda morbid. Sorry.
I hope they don’t screen these letters to make sure we’re being secure or whatever. What secrets could I even tell when they don't reveal anything to us? I don’t actually believe they would poison us, I swear! I’m sorry Mr. Letter Screener. I’m not some threat or some dissident. I'm just a little guy with a lot to say and no one near me to say it to. I mean even if it was poisoned, I’m still here eating it so what does that say about me. I'm bitterly loyal, perhaps. I guess they feel like they have to reward us with these rations after all this fighting as if it makes up for the years we all threw away. I haven't gotten used to it yet, the notion of something existing after the war ends. I always thought I’d die before it happened. There are worse ways to go than at the hands of some poisoned water though, I think. I'm sure it wouldn't hurt me anyway, even if it was poisoned. I mean, I've survived this long already, right? What’s another bit of poison gonna do all mixed up with the flood of poison that’s already been trapped inside me from the moment I had to start flying to hurt people? Sorry Mr. Letter Screener. I’m not trying to sound mutinous or anything, just being realistic here. The poison comes from inside all of us. Sorry for the bleakness today. I know it's not very fun to hear about. I’ll write with happier news next time, I hope.
sorry again,
pilot
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my sweet strawberry,
It’s confession time again. This one isn’t much of a secret though, don’t worry. Here it is: I fall in love frequently and without warning. It’s always with people who will never know and I think it’s always better that way, at least for me. The girl with the wavy hair and a bright yellow umbrella. The guy who played his guitar at the same corner every other week. Someone who’s nice to me, a nice stranger, the teacher leading his kids around the park, someone with a nice voice that carries softly in the wind. The kind of person that makes me laugh.
You were the first though, the first and most important. You’re the only one I’ve ever thought about telling. I just wanted to say something before it was too late. Your smile takes everything out of me. It makes me want to crack, to cry, to admit everything, to return to the past, to be with you in every single way I can. I still remember that summer day when I first saw you. It was warm, mid-afternoon probably, and I was running ahead with my family behind me as my shirt clung to my back. We were on vacation, not that far from home but far enough to be a rarity, far enough to pretend like things were different. Even as a child, I understood how hard they worked to bring us somewhere special. It was before the fighting broke out, crazy as it is now to imagine that there was ever a time beforehand. It feels like I’ve been fighting forever. The rest of it is hazy, but I still remember how it felt to run down the streets and look up at your smiling face from the bottom of a long flight of stairs. I saw you smile and I fell in love before I even knew what love was. You were the first and the most important, the only one that’s lasted.
You are that entire summer to me. You and your smile and your eyes and the way that your eyes lit up in the summer sun. My life is so messy now, especially when I’m stuck here. You make it better though. I sound all sombre and serious and shit now, right? I guess I just realised how crazy things really are here and I wanted you to understand how serious I am about this. You’re not like the others. I'm never going to forget about you. So please indulge me just this once. I’ll wrap my feelings up in a nice little bow and pretend like you’re right here, ready to unravel them. As soon as it’s all over, maybe we can do it for real. I’ll find a way to make it happen. I wish I was stronger, but for now, this is enough.
stay safe,
blueberry
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hi bird,
I’m sorry if this is weird. I’m still getting used to it. I hope you don’t mind if I write to you more. It just gets lonely here sometimes. Not necessarily in a bad way. It’s just another fact of life. I’ve been feeling better about it, been working on my own self image. I'm not sure if I'll ever find my broken pieces or if I'm forever marred, broiled under the picked over scab that is war. I don't know if I'll ever be whole or what I'm even missing, but I think you have healed me and helped me grow along the way. I think you make me a better person with your silent support. I’m almost decent. Almost redeemable. For that, I can only say thanks. I hope you know I don’t expect that out of you. I don’t really subscribe to the notion that you should rely on other people to feel complete. It’s good to have people with you for many things, but you should rely on yourself for things like that. You’ve helped me a lot though, even if you don’t know it. Sometimes I like to imagine a world where we could stand back to back and fight for something together. For something more righteous than all of this messiness. I wish we weren’t so far apart. The universe is so fucking cruel sometimes. It’s unfair. That would have been really nice, don't you think? A world with a boat built for two and a calm sea to row it in. I don’t know how to swim, but I long for it all the same. Maybe you would have taught me? It’s a nice thought. A calm sea for the two of us and the soft summer sun humming down our backs. I wish I could be there right now.
in another life,
pilot
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dear strawberry,
Today’s the day we’ve all been preparing for, or so they say. I just thought you’d like to know. Everyone around me is talking about how it’s going to be the hardest one yet. We might not make it back. We're not really allowed to really say that since it hurts morale or something, but I can hear their voices whisper it in hushed tones when they think no one’s around to listen. I’m sure the higher ups already know we do it anyway. Don’t worry about me though. I’m scrappy and a fighter and when all this wretched fighting is over I’m gonna grow a little berry patch in our name just like I always promised. One bush for every battle sounds pretty good to me.
I’ll be an old man and some kid will ask me why I have so many fucking berry bushes when my bones are too brittle to take proper care of them. I’ll take to them like the son or the daughter I’ve always wanted and I’m gonna wait a second to really build up the suspense before saying I did it out of love. Love. Imagine that. I’m going to transform this freaking battlefield’s hate into our own little showcase of love. Wouldn’t that be the greatest?
Anyway, they told us to write something in case we don't make it back, something to make it easier to arrange our affairs post mortem. It’s a crazy thing to ask. As if we can afford to own tangible anything here, as if all our shit didn't burn in the heat of battle a long time ago. I left it all to my mother. “Banzoin Hakka: everything to my mother,” is what I wrote on that stupid little grid of paper in big, blocky letters. I wanted to protest it a little but to who? What would I even say? “Hello, sir. I know that you have no choice, but I don’t like that the regiment’s dreams have been reduced to tiny squares on a piece of fucking A4 notebook paper. Have you considered any other formats? I’d suggest something that would make them feel less like commodities in the warehouse of the world. How about a conversation instead?” I’m pretty sure they’d beat my ass for that.
I would have included you too, but what could I even say? “In the event of Banzoin Hakka’s death, please send these letters to the strawberry-eyed boy with black hair that he met a lifetime ago as a child when the world was still at peace.” You'd think I'm crazy. They’d never know where to look anyway. I don’t even know your name. I can’t even offer them that much. I’m not a miracle worker and neither are they. If I was, I wouldn't be stuck here writing this to you instead of being a happy farmer or a fisher or a doctor like I always wanted. I’m different though. They’d never care to find you, but I would. I will, once everything is all over. That’s a promise. As soon as I make it out of here, I’m going to tear up the world looking for pieces of you starting with my own little patch of berries.
They would never even know what to do with these letters anyway. Honestly, they would probably just toss them into the bonfire because no one would be any the wiser. I knew going into this that my life would probably go up in flames because I had no other choice but to be the tinder in another man’s giant fucking matchbox. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you though, to the image of you that lives in my memory until it can meet the you that actually grew up somewhere out there. I can’t save myself, but I can save you from burning in hell alongside me. No, it’s enough for me to think about you and to write knowing you’ll never be any the wiser. I’ve heard that letters are the loneliest form of writing, but I always feel so at peace when I think about you so I can’t say that I agree. Maybe I really should come find you for real when everything is all over and I’m the craziest fucking farmer in the whole universe. Would you like that? I don’t know. At least then I’ll have something tangible to show you, something that’s mine and mine alone, something that I fucking bled for the rights to own.
“Show him the berries,” I’d say to my farmhand, knowing that you have no idea what that means. That would be cute, right? We could even grow them together if you wanted. You’d laugh at me and say I’m ridiculous and it would be a much nicer way for us to meet again than somewhere trapped in this absolute furnace. Or maybe instead, I’d meet your eyes across the way in some bar or café and tell you a cheesy line about how pretty your eyes are as if I’m discovering them for the first time all over again, as if the entire berry patch isn’t a reflection of both of our eyes married together forever. I’d ask if you have a map because I’m lost in your eyes and you’d tilt your head and ask what I mean and yell at me when I refuse to elaborate. Cute. I like the idea of being a farmer more though. Makes it feel more real. Besides, I've always been very good with my hands. Haha. Get it?
Anyway, they’re calling me back now. We march at sunrise, so I have to be ready an hour before then. I’m definitely coming home for the both of us. I’ll try my best to make it happen. If this is how it ends, then I just want to say thanks. See you when I see you, my silly little angel.
yours,
blueberry
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it’s nice to meet you bird,
I’ve decided that I’m going to call you bird. I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry, I don’t really know what else to use. Is this weird? I guess it is, but I don’t know what else to do so I decided I’m going to write out my feelings. I remember our meeting very well. I saw you, lying there all battered and broken, and I was struck at once with the image of birds who fall from their nests. or lemmings. It’s cruel, all the mythos around them. That’s why I feel like bird is a fitting title. I wish it was something nicer but no, when I stared at your face all I could hear were the echoing calls of birds that can never get back home.
I was there when the barrage finally ended, when they tagged the bodies and ferried them away in hundreds of faceless, nameless bags. I stared out towards the field and the weight of war really settled deep into my chest. It fucking hurt. There you were. I haven't cried in a very long time but I did when I saw you, sobbed a little as I bent down to clutch your hand in mine. It was unfair. You looked so young beside me, too innocent for this fucked up world. It was an ugly kind of juxtaposition. I’m pretty sure we aren't that different though, which only made it worse. You were probably another guy just like me. Someone who only had two options: fight or die trying.
Bettel came over to me kindly, so very kind, he’s always so kind, and asked me softly if I knew you. I don't know what I ever did to deserve him all things considered. Maybe I don’t, honestly, but the fire still threw our lives onto the same twisted path. I’m grateful that I met him. You would have liked him too, I'm sure. You would have liked him a lot. He’s the kind of person that people just… like and they should. His hand was soft as it ruffled through my hair. I sobbed even harder, gripped your gnarled hand even tighter to my chest, as I told him that I didn’t. I wish I had something else to say to him.
I still don’t know why I cried. I didn’t know anything about you. I still don’t, beyond the times when I imagine I do. Somehow that fact made it worse though. It hurt a lot, meeting you like this. I wish things were different between us. There was something sad about the potential of it all. I didn't know you, but the sight of you devastated me more than anything else just the same. When I think about me, the pilot, and you, the bird who will never fly again, I like to imagine that we were two flyers sharing the same blue tapestry of sky, even if we were stitched into different parts of it. Perhaps that's why I’ve always felt so terribly connected to you. So, hi. My name is Machina X Flayon. I’m a pilot. Sometimes I regret that. I hope you died in peace, if such a thing is even still possible. You might never see this, but I want you to know that you changed my life. Thank you, bird. I’m sorry if it’s weird, but I think I'll keep writing to you for a little bit longer. It makes the ache in my chest feel a little better. Thank you for this fantasy, bird, for letting me imagine there’s something else out there waiting for me. I hope you rest in peace.
goodnight sweet prince,
pilot