A story for hearts that have loved the unloving, and waited for words that never came.
Once upon a time, in the wide and sacred wilderness, a butterfly fluttered through a sun-drenched meadow. She was delicate, radiant, full of grace—the kind of presence that made even the wildflowers sigh.
That day, her wings caught the faint scent of blood on the breeze.
That day, her wings caught the faint scent of blood on the breeze.
Curious and concerned, she followed it deep into the woods.
There, lying in the shadows, was a buffalo—strong, silent, and stoic—his side pierced by an arrow. His body, vast and powerful, trembled faintly.
There, lying in the shadows, was a buffalo—strong, silent, and stoic—his side pierced by an arrow. His body, vast and powerful, trembled faintly.
The butterfly, though small, moved without fear.
She pressed her soft wings against his wound and gently removed the arrow, whispering prayers under her breath.
She pressed her soft wings against his wound and gently removed the arrow, whispering prayers under her breath.
Suddenly, the buffalo awoke—startled, angry, ashamed.
“I don’t need your help! Leave me alone!” he thundered.
In his panic, he thrashed and accidentally struck her, sending her spiraling to the ground. Her wings, now torn, couldn’t carry her.
But she said nothing. She never did.
In his panic, he thrashed and accidentally struck her, sending her spiraling to the ground. Her wings, now torn, couldn’t carry her.
But she said nothing. She never did.
She limped away—wounded—but not resentful.
She returned to the small cave where she always went to cry after being hurt by him.
It wasn’t the first time.
She returned to the small cave where she always went to cry after being hurt by him.
It wasn’t the first time.
But when her wings healed, she came back.
This time with a medicinal plant, known only to butterflies and the old winds—an offering of healing, not just for his wound, but for his heart.
This time with a medicinal plant, known only to butterflies and the old winds—an offering of healing, not just for his wound, but for his heart.
The buffalo saw her approach and panicked again.
“Go away! I don’t want you here!” he roared, more afraid of his own need than of her presence.
He kicked out with force—this time, harder.
She collapsed from the blow, gasping. But before she left, she placed the plant near his feet.
He kicked out with force—this time, harder.
She collapsed from the blow, gasping. But before she left, she placed the plant near his feet.
Tears in her eyes, she whispered,
“Buffalo… sometimes I think you don’t love me.”
“Buffalo… sometimes I think you don’t love me.”
He looked away, ashamed but too proud to soften.
“I don’t! I hate you!” he growled.
“I don’t! I hate you!” he growled.
She didn’t argue. She never did.
This time, she flew away—and didn’t come back.
This time, she flew away—and didn’t come back.
Silence.
No gentle wings brushing the wind.
No healing gifts.
No voice in the forest.
No healing gifts.
No voice in the forest.
Just the buffalo… and the dried-up plant she had left behind.
He didn’t notice at first.
But as the days turned to nights, and nights into weeks… her absence became unbearable.
But as the days turned to nights, and nights into weeks… her absence became unbearable.
There was no more light in the trees.
No warmth in the wind.
Only the memory of her presence—sweet, steady, and now… gone.
No warmth in the wind.
Only the memory of her presence—sweet, steady, and now… gone.
His hunger faded.
His strength, once his pride, became hollow.
Finally, desperate and limping, he dragged himself to her cave—hoping, praying, wishing for one last glimpse.
His strength, once his pride, became hollow.
Finally, desperate and limping, he dragged himself to her cave—hoping, praying, wishing for one last glimpse.
But she wasn’t there.
Only silence.
Only emptiness.
Only silence.
Only emptiness.
He lay down at the entrance and wept—his massive body trembling with a sorrow too big to contain.
A stone beside him—quiet and ancient—spoke:
“Why do you cry, buffalo?”
He didn’t even flinch at the talking stone. Grief made even impossible things seem ordinary.
“Because… I loved a butterfly.”
His voice cracked. “She was light, joy, kindness. She saw me. She loved me… and I think I killed her—with my fear, my anger, my silence.”
His voice cracked. “She was light, joy, kindness. She saw me. She loved me… and I think I killed her—with my fear, my anger, my silence.”
The stone asked,
“Did you ever tell her you loved her?”
“Did you ever tell her you loved her?”
“No.”
He bowed his head.
“I thought it would be easier to say I hated her…”
He bowed his head.
“I thought it would be easier to say I hated her…”
Suddenly, a soft voice whispered:
“Since when do stones talk?”
“Since when do stones talk?”
He turned.
There she was.
There she was.
Tattered wings, dimmed glow… but alive.
She had heard it all.
She had heard it all.
The buffalo gasped, eyes wide, heart undone. He rushed to her, wrapped her trembling body in his massive neck—and sobbed.
“I hate you! I hate you!” he cried…
But his arms clung to her like a child to a mother.
Because even now…
Even then…
He still couldn’t say I love you.
Because even now…
Even then…
He still couldn’t say I love you.
💚 Reflection: When Love is Silent
Not everyone who loves you knows how to love you.
Some build walls instead of bridges.
Some protect their heart with anger, because they’ve never been shown how to be soft.
Some say cruel words, because vulnerability feels like death to them.
And some never say "I love you"… but they show up, they stay close, they protect you in silence.
Some protect their heart with anger, because they’ve never been shown how to be soft.
Some say cruel words, because vulnerability feels like death to them.
And some never say "I love you"… but they show up, they stay close, they protect you in silence.
Not all love speaks.
But it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
But it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
Still, it’s not your job to fix someone’s broken way of loving.
You can offer grace. You can offer understanding.
But you must also protect your own wings.
You can offer grace. You can offer understanding.
But you must also protect your own wings.
And if someone’s love leaves you bruised, begging, or doubting your worth—remember:
Love should not feel like war.
Love should feel like home.
Love should not feel like war.
Love should feel like home.
🕊️ Listen with your heart.
And know this:
Sometimes, the ones who love the most…
…don’t know how to say it.
…don’t know how to say it.
But sometimes, those who love you will learn.
Especially if you teach them with silence,
with self-respect,
and with the courage to walk away until they are ready to meet you in the light.
with self-respect,
and with the courage to walk away until they are ready to meet you in the light.
Because you, dear butterfly, were never meant to be crushed under the weight of someone else’s fear.
You were born to fly.
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