Not the “big events” — the tiny rituals. The slow blinks. The head bumps. The way a cat can stitch themselves into your everyday life… until the everyday is what hurts the most.
You didn’t sprint into my arms — you walked up like you were deciding. Then you pressed your forehead into my palm, and my life quietly became yours.
You cried once when the lights went out — then curled beside me like a tiny engine. I stayed still so you could believe: safe is real, and it lives here.
Hallway sprint. Skid-turn. Wild eyes. Then you flopped down like nothing happened — as if joy needed to burn bright before you could sleep.
You claimed the windowsill and watched birds like it was your job. Every now and then you glanced back, just to make sure I was still there — like we were doing life together.
First came the complaints — then the quiet. Your paw found my hand, and the whole car softened. Home isn’t a place… it’s the touch you choose to lean into.
You sat a metre away pretending you weren’t interested. But every chop, every step — you supervised like love is a job you took seriously.
Same patch of light. Same slow stretch. Watching you melt into warmth taught me how to breathe when my day felt heavy.
You refused to respect closed doors. Even in silence you stayed nearby, like your whole job was making sure I never had to be alone.
I bought toys. You chose a box. You sat in it like royalty — and somehow that tiny, ridiculous moment became one of the happiest parts of my day.
You startled at every rumble — and still you stayed. You taught me courage can be small, shaky, and loyal enough to sit beside you anyway.
You’d stop at the threshold and look back until I caught up — patient, watchful. Like you refused to move on with the day unless we did it together.
You kneaded my wrist like dough, purring hard enough to shake the cushions. I let my hand go numb because this was our holy little ritual.
You bumped your forehead into my leg like you were signing your name on me — a quiet, confident “you’re mine.” I didn’t realise how much that would matter later.
At every red light you leaned closer, checking I was still there. The road could be anything — as long as you were pressed against me like we belonged.
I hated the carrier. You hated the waiting room. And somehow you still leaned into my palm — like you were comforting me, not the other way around.
You leaned against my leg and turned on that purr — steady, insistent — like you were stitching my frayed edges back together without asking permission.
You took the treat, then looked up and gave me that slow blink — the gentlest “I trust you.” I didn’t know gratitude could be so quiet… and so devastatingly sweet.
You didn’t chase as hard, but you still tried — just to keep me smiling. You gave me your “best” even when your body was tired.
You stared at me a little longer — calm, trusting. Like you believed I could keep you safe from time… and I wanted so badly to be able to.
The house didn’t just get quieter — it changed. Every room held its breath, waiting for a pawstep that would never come.
I wake up and my body still expects you. Some habits don’t break — they just turn into a quiet heartbreak you carry so the day can continue.
Your collar still hangs where it always did. I touch it like it’s a door handle to the past — but it never opens… it just reminds me you were real.
I didn’t know a corner could feel loud until yours fell silent. Now even the floor looks like it’s waiting for you to come back and make it normal again.
Your blanket still smells like you if I’m brave enough to hold it close. Some days I can. Some days I can’t. Love turns comfort into a deep breath that hurts.
I scroll like it’s a lifeline — one more loaf photo, one more purr video — trying to prove you existed… and that I didn’t dream the best part of my life.
I still glance at the cushion you claimed. Some reflexes don’t fade… they just turn into missing. So I leave a little space, like love can make room for you.
It’s silly how a small toy can bring me to my knees. You made ordinary things sacred just by loving them… and now they love me back by reminding me of you.
I still catch myself looking for you in the places you loved — the sill, the warm corner, the sunny patch. The house keeps pointing at the shape you left behind.
I still pause when I turn the key, bracing for the little footsteps or the patient stare. When it doesn’t happen, the air drops out of the room — every single time.
I lit a candle and said your name out loud, like love can still find you. I don’t know where it goes after goodbye — I only know it doesn’t disappear.