⋆˚࿔ ∙ 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒐 ∙ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ :
My cat wasn’t just a cat—he was part of me. He was my comfort, my routine, my quiet companion. It’s been a week since he disappeared, and the emptiness he left still doesn’t let me breathe right. I don’t know if someone took him, if he got lost, or if he’s even still alive. That not knowing hurts more than any goodbye. I wonder if he’s eaten, if he’s cold, if someone’s giving him love—or if he’s out there alone, like I am now without him. Every time I see a cat video, I whisper, “that’s me and him,” but then I remember—he’s not here anymore. He’s not curling up on my bed, not waiting at the door. I cry. I cry every time I think about him, every time someone mentions him, every time I see a cat that looks like him. I don’t know if I can’t move on or if I don’t want to—because forgetting him would mean losing him all over again. He used to understand me without words. And now, this silence is louder than anything..
2025-07-21 03:08:50