The Cat Who Brought Me Back

I'd been walking through sophomore year like a straight-up zombie—hoodie up, headphones in, eyes glued to my phone. My mom called it my "vampire phase," but honestly, vampires had more personality. I had none left.

Then Jasper, my ancient orange cat, stopped eating.

"He's probably just being dramatic," Maya said when I texted her from the vet's waiting room. "Cats are extra like that."

But Dr. Patel didn't think so. She prescribed these mega vitamin supplements—tiny, gelatinous bombs I had to wrap in turkey lunch meat. Twice a day.

"You're basically a pharmacist now," my friend Kai joked when I bailed on our group chat to Jasper-sit. "Priorities, I guess."

Here's the thing nobody tells you about nursing a sick animal back to health: it's slow. Agonizingly slow. The first week, I sat on my bedroom floor every morning and evening, talking to Jasper about everything—my crush on Kai, how fake I felt trying to be cool at school, how exhausting it was to perform being a teenager when I barely felt like a person.

Jasper just stared at me with those glassy amber eyes, slowly blinking, like he knew.

"You're not a zombie, you know," my mom said one night, watching me coax Jasper into eating another vitamin-wrapped treat. "You're just growing. It's supposed to hurt."

Somewhere around week three, Jasper started eating again. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. And I realized something while watching him devour his vitamin like it was fine dining: I hadn't checked my phone during our feeding session in days.

Maybe that's what growing up actually is. Not becoming someone new, but finding the parts of yourself that got buried under everyone else's expectations. Jasper didn't need to be different—he just needed what was missing.

The day Jasper finally tackled me for a treat, I noticed my phone was still in my backpack. I'd forgotten it. The zombie was gone, and I hadn't even noticed her leave.