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You sound like someone

who deeply loved someone

but ended up like a caterpillar

without wings.

Still, it felt good

watching them fly

among beautiful flowers

in a lush garden,

while you crawled,

counting the days

until your wings would grow

and you could join them.

And yeah,

that day arrived.

He got his wings.

Different from the others,

unique in their own way.

But the butterflies

he had watched for so long

were nowhere to be found.

He flew farther,

meeting butterflies

of different colours,

patterns

and shapes,

but none of them

felt familiar.

Somehow,

he couldn’t genuinely feel for them

the way he once felt

when he was still

a caterpillar.

Those butterflies

had fed his dreams.

They gave him hope.

They made him believe

he was truly loved.

They would come

and sit on his branch

just to greet him,

saying,

you are nearly there.

Soon,

we will fly together

from flower to flower,

pollinating lovely blooms

of every kind.

Together.

But the butterflies

he met now

were busy

in their own worlds,

posing for pictures,

showing their colours,

flying wherever

they pleased.

Somehow,

somewhere,

he felt lost.

Alone.

Then,

in a quiet corner

of his heart,

a strange thought appeared.

What if

they were the same butterflies?

What if

only their colours

had changed?

What if

they recognised him

but chose not to come near

because he hadn’t become

the butterfly

they had imagined?

He looked at his wings.

Am I not beautiful?

And when even a butterfly

begins to doubt

the beauty

of its own wings,

tell me,

who in this world

is beautiful?