He has nothing to hunt, but alertness hadn’t left him completely. You make your parents and friends stand next to his enclosure for far longer than necessary, but you can’t help but sit there, watching him move.

The tiger has lived in captivity all his life, and it would be foolish to say it hadn’t changed him, hadn’t separated him from his wild cousins with scheduled meals and a glass cage. But there is something in those gold eyes that you think knows you, so you meet them, always, everytime, holding his gaze with something close to awe straightening your spine.

He is used to being watched—that’s why he’s here, in your hometown zoo, after all—but the thrill of coming here for you had always been hoping he would watch you back. Looking back, you wonder if the real reason you kept doing it is because you were begging for some kind of comradery. Finding solidarity in a wild animal who knows it’s caged, but does not care. That wants freedom, subconsciously, but doesn’t know what that means.

Maybe a tiger who deals with eyes and uncharacteristic snow is like you, who can take the brunt of things your tired mind was not built to handle. You are both used to being watched. But maybe you deserve to be understood in more than DNA and worksheet behavior analysis.

Maybe you should be allowed, even just a little, to do what you are built for.