I barely noticed you by the window sill at my workplace. I was surprised a creature as large as you could be so inconspicuous; I'm so used to your vigor and curiosity. You weren't moving, and I had thought you already passed away. Instead, you were so weak, I accidentally flipped you over from a puff of air, to check that very thing. The inside of a building is an insidious place for insects—a prison beyond understanding. You were succumbing to its uncaring walls, and my guilt weighed more than my fear.
I found a small piece of wood, and placed it just above you. As if you understood the instruction, you quickly moved your legs upward, and stuck to it. I took you outside to some flowers; you seemed curious, but didn't wish to leave the wood after a few minutes of facing them. Perhaps you just needed more time to rest, more time away from the sun-baked windows which were cooking you alive. I gave you shade nearby, and found some small rain puddles to coat my hands with, hopefully to give you some hydration. Just some small droplets and flicks of the fingers, hoping you might ingest some beads of water, as you gained more strength.
I wasn't sure if you'd make it, but I saw you breathing—I saw you holding on. Earnestly, I just hoped that whatever happened was better than the uncaring hand you were dealt until this point. When I checked on you after my lunch, you were nowhere to be seen. I'm holding on to hope that you regained your strength, and eventually flew away. We all live and die, but the pointless cruelty of dehydrating on a window sill is too much. You just wanted to live and forage, and instead we trapped you in a labyrinth of suffering. Who would've even cared if your corpse were there instead, had I missed you today? Why do we often feel so little for the countless other inhabitants of our world?
I hope you got your second chance.
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