I Tried – Story of a Bird

The moment I still can’t let go • many years ago

Some days feel like they don’t belong to you. They are just there, empty and slow, like someone forgot to fill them with anything. That day was exactly like that. I was sitting on the old wooden bench outside a house, under a tree. The sky was dull, the road was quiet, and I had nothing to do. I remember looking up and talking to God the way you talk when you’re a little angry and a little tired.

“Why this kind of day? Why am I just sitting here feeling bored?”

No answer came. Not that day.

I closed my eyes for a minute, just resting. When I opened them again, a small brown bird was hopping on the ground near my feet. Nothing special about her—just a plain little bird with a few white spots and one wing that looked slightly bent, like it had been hurt long ago. She hopped once, twice, then suddenly flew up and sat on the bench right beside me. Not one foot away. Right next to me.

I froze. My heart gave a small jump. Why me? Why did she sit so close? Birds always fly away. What if I moved wrong and scared her? What if I harmed her without meaning to? But she just sat there, calm, looking around like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe loudly. I just watched her tiny chest going up and down. Four minutes, maybe five. It felt longer. It felt peaceful.

Then, out of nowhere, a few fat raindrops started falling—plip, plip, plip—on the bench, on my arm, on her feathers. The sky had turned dark without me noticing. I stood up quickly to run under the roof at the front of the house. The moment I moved, she gave one little hop and flew away into the soft rain. I watched her disappear between the leaves.

I stood under the roof for a long time, looking at the empty bench getting wet. Something warm stayed inside me, even when the rain stopped.

The next day was very busy—phone calls, work, running here and there. I was tired. But somehow, in the late afternoon, I got a few free minutes. I left everything and walked alone to the river.

It was the quiet side of the village. No people, no noise. Just the slow river, soft grass, mango trees, and the sky turning gentle orange. The air was cool and calm.

I took off my slippers and sat on the grass near the water. My feet almost touched the river. I just sat there, looking at the water and the sky, feeling peaceful.

And then I saw her again. The same little bird. She was already there, sitting quietly on the grass not far from me. When she saw me, she didn’t fly away. She stayed.

That was all.

We were both there together, quietly. The river flowed slowly. The light was soft. The evening felt perfect. Just me and this small bird sharing the same calm moment, enjoying the beauty of the riverside together. Nothing more needed.

It was the most beautiful part of the day. A simple, peaceful moment.

I wanted to speak—thank you, stay, please don’t leave again—but words felt too heavy, too human. So I simply opened my hand, palm up, on my knee. An offering, a prayer, a foolish hope.

We sat like that for ten or fifteen minutes. I didn’t want it to end. Time dissolved.

After some time, the sun went lower. She opened her wings and flew away gently over the water. I watched her go until she became a tiny dot and disappeared among the trees.

I sat there a little longer, still feeling that quiet happiness inside. That moment never left me. Still hasn’t.

After that day, I waited for her. I told myself, “It was only a bird. Two small moments. Forget it.” But I couldn’t. I still can’t. It did not fade.

Days became weeks. The memory nested inside me quietly, stubbornly, refusing to leave. I returned to the river. I walked those paths at dawn, at dusk, in the rain. I carried crumbs, seeds, pieces of my own lunch like a madman leaving offerings.

She never came again.

I tried everything to kill the ache—work, laughter, people, even a small clay bird on my windowsill. Nothing worked.

She didn’t have wings then to fly. I didn’t fall for the beauty. She wasn’t there for love; she was there so that I didn’t get bored more. I’m the one who was there for the moment I never want to escape. That was once in a lifetime, but I’m the one who still can’t accept it.

The little bird became a “BIRD”. Now she has her wings too. She always looked for freedom. She won it. She got it.

No matter what else I do, I can’t bring the moment back to life again.

The moment is still here—inside me, around me, every day, every night.

Because it was never really about the bird.

It was about the moment she chose me. Out of all the careless humans in the world, she—small, plain, a little broken—decided I was safe.

That trust became the measure of everything good that came after. Nothing measured up.

Years later, people wonder why I keep my windows open, why I stop and look when a bird comes near, why I smile at nothing.

They think I’m waiting for love.

They are wrong.

I am waiting for a small brown bird with a crooked wing who once turned my worst day into my best—without even trying.

She is free now. Flying high. She doesn’t remember me.

But I remember her. Every morning. Every night.

The moment grew its own wings and lives inside me, beating softly, forever.

I tried to let it go. I tried to forget. I tried.

This is the story of how I failed.

And deep down… I’m glad I did.