You were there, always. Not just a pet, not just a presence— you were the quiet heartbeat of this home. And yesterday, without warning, the world decided to take you back.

I keep asking why. Why a life so gentle had to end in silence, why a creature so full of light was asked to leave before her time. But there are no answers here, only the hollow sound of rooms that used to echo with your voice.

I walk past the places where you waited for me— the edge of the bed, the corner of the couch, the patch of sunlight you claimed as your own— and every step feels like a wound reopening. I half expect to hear your soft cry, to feel you brush against my leg, but there is only air.

They say some souls are too pure to stay long, and maybe that’s true. Somewhere beyond this, your sister is waiting, and I hope the two of you are curled together, safe, warm, whole.

I got fired before 2026.

Not cinematic. Just slow erosion.