Short Story | Fluttering, Falling Apart

I ascend slowly into the sky. With a caution that feels as if I might burst the moment a bird pecks at me, I came undone.

You cried and screamed so much, saying you wanted me. I, a bright red, became yours. Even though you floated me along with a beaming smile, the moment you found your next target, you let me go so easily. The time spent tied to your fingertip ended more abruptly than I had imagined. Only the warmth of the palm that touched me last still lingers faintly.

Surrendering myself to the sky, I look down. I have no way of knowing which child was you anymore. After all, cars and people look the same size from up here.

Hey, why did you want me? Why was I light enough for you to let go of so easily? The gentle breeze carries me away without answering anything. It is kind, yet cruel, and moves at a speed I cannot resist.

I have no eyes, but I remember that you held me. I feel lonely. Even though I have no ego, and I shouldn't know what emotions are, I wonder where this feeling comes from.

The higher I drift, the lighter I become. The lighter I become, the less I am myself. In the distance, I felt the shadow of a bird flicker. A bird. A living bird. At that moment, there was a small, dry sound. Pop—the sound of something breaking. The sound of an ending. I can no longer maintain my round shape. My glossy, red, perfectly round shape that I was so proud of.

Something red and thin unravels in the wind. One petal, then another, falling apart.

The End

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