Mittens

Mittens didn’t do tricks. She didn’t chase string or cuddle on demand. She wasn’t that kind of cat. She was the sort who sat at the end of the bed and watched me. She had this way of blinking slowly, like she understood everything I didn’t say out loud. I found her at a shelter when I was just starting uni. Everything felt overwhelming, new people, new place, endless noise. She was curled in the corner of her cage, ignoring everyone, until I walked past. She looked at me like I was interrupting something important. I took her home that same day. She hid under the bed for three days. Then one night she jumped up and slept on my chest. From then on, we were a pair. She hated strangers. She’d disappear whenever I had mates over and reappear only once the flat was quiet again. She liked her routines: warm laundry, the left cushion on the sofa, the sound of a kettle boiling. In the last year, her body gave up before her spirit did. She still tried to follow me around, even when her legs shook. I held her while the vet helped her go. She let out one breath and that was it. Now I still leave space on the bed. I still glance at the windowsill, expecting to see her silhouette. She didn’t ask for much. Just silence, sun and someone to stay. And I did.