I often notice this, in pairs of birds. They sit close for a while, their bodies almost touching, quiet and unhurried. Then, suddenly, one lifts off. It flies to another branch, crosses the garden, disappears for a moment. The other does not follow. It stays where it is, watching. And sometimes, after a while, the first bird returns.

Something about this simple rhythm makes me think about relationships. We often mistake closeness for constant togetherness, as though being connected means being present in every moment of each other’s lives. Kahlil Gibran, writing about marriage in The Prophet, talks about two pillars standing apart, supporting the same temple. Let there be spaces in your togetherness, he writes, allowing the winds of the heavens to dance between them.

I like the simplicity of that thought. Love does not require two people to become one. There is a quiet intimacy in sitting in the same room, each absorbed in a different book or following a different thought, without feeling compelled to fill every silence.

Perhaps that is what keeps drawing me back to those birds. They come close. They move apart. And sometimes, they return. Two birds and the sky between them are enough.

Photographs and text by Prerna Jain.