who knew caterpillar forums were actually a thing.

Wake up. Roll over.

Fail to recognize an endlessly blue sky.

Linger for a moment or two. Or maybe until another hour passes by.

The gleaming alarm clock reads, "Fifteen minutes to go."

Always fifteen. Always on the go. Always rushing nowhere to be on time

as you wade through the molasses and the cold.

Get up. Brush teeth, wash face, comb hair.

Take daily showers, try to rinse yourself away;

try to get some sense of feeling back into your skin.

But you don't. Because you can't.

Because every day it's getting harder and harder to keep up with the mask.

You haven't been outside in so long. Does it matter?

The air beyond these four walls is just as stale as the one in your chest.

Mechanical motions:

Breathe in, breathe out, eat, sleep, wake up,

brush teeth, wash face, comb hair,

stand in front of the mirror, stretch your face into an unrehearsed smile.

It looks unnatural. It hurts the corners of your lips.

Suddenly, one day, you see Something.

On your balcony there is a potted mint plant.

In the mint plant, there is a caterpillar.

It is...fuzzy? Get closer. It is.

It is black, with reddish tips, a row of petite boot-like feet.

It is...cute?

When was the last time you referred to something as cute?

When was the last time you felt genuinely curious about anything?

A voice in the back of your head says you should leave the caterpillar alone.

But really, how much of a chance does it stand against any kind of bird,

against the pelting rain, against this suffocating molasses?

It is there, all alone, with nowhere else to go. Just like you.

So, you grab a proper container, cut open holes into a lid,

reach into the mint, carefully placing

Bonifacio the Caterpillar into his brand new home.

Bonifacio munches through the leaves with remarkable speed--

Hungry hungry caterpillar, indeed!

You still struggle to pick up the pieces, to take care of yourself,

but it gets easier as you care for something that needs you to keep it alive.

When Bonifacio needs a bigger home, you make him one.

When Bonifacio needs fresh food, you go outside on the hunt for different

caterpillar-approved salads.

And you actually chuckle for the first time in months as he eats a leaf

while sitting peacefully in the nook of your hands.

And suddenly, it stops.

Bonifacio buries himself in the earth.

He is either hibernating

before he morphs into an agreeable tiger moth,

or he is on the other percentage leaning towards 'probably gone.'

You nervously observe for the longest month.

And just as you think, "I should've never interfered.

I should've left well enough alone."

You see him again, from the corner of your eye.

Fuzzy. Pearl-white, tiny black legs,

beautifully-patterned wings.

He flutters and stares.

When he is ready, you release him,

and you finally remember the names

of your gleaming, bright stars,

as you look up

at the sky.