The Cat Who Judged Everything

I felt like a zombie walking through Hallway B, dead inside after three hours of AP Euro and the realization that my crush hadn't looked at me once in four days. My cat, Miso, would've been disgusted. She basically raised me on a steady diet of judgment and silent judgment.

"You're being dramatic," my actual friend, Jenna, said as she slid into the seat across from me at lunch. "He's just a guy. A guy who still wears those same crusty Vans every day, by the way."

"I'm not being dramatic. I'm being thorough." I pulled out my phone. "I've been doing some... reconnaissance."

"You're spying on him?" Jenna lowered her voice. "That's creepy, even for you."

"It's not spying, it's—"

"It's literally spying."

Okay, fine. I'd been monitoring his Spotify activity (studio apartment vibes at 2 AM? Who even was he), his Instagram stories (mostly blurry concert photos and aesthetic coffees), and his general whereabouts during fourth period (library, always the library). The information was crucial. It was science.

"Whatever," I said. "My point is, I know things now."

That afternoon, I took my dog, Barnaby, on his "walk"—aka stalking route past Eliot's house. Barnaby, a golden retriever with zero chill and maximum enthusiasm, immediately decided this was the best day of his life and lunged at someone walking out of Eliot's driveway.

"Barnaby, NO—" I yanked the leash.

The person turned. It wasn't Eliot. It was a girl I'd seen around school—quiet, always reading, painted-on black jeans. She was holding... a giant stack of books?

"Sorry about him," I said, face burning. "He's... friendly."

She smiled, and it was this small, genuine thing that caught me off guard. "It's okay. I like dogs." She knelt down and let Barnaby cover her in slobber and love. "What's his name?"

"Barnaby. And I'm Maya."

"I'm Cassie." She stood up, wiping dog hair from her jacket. "You live around here?"

"Yeah, just down the street."

"Cool." She paused. "I'm at Eliot's house tutoring him in algebra. He's... struggling."

Something shifted in my chest. The Spotify late nights weren't studio sessions. They were frustration. The library visits weren't brooding aesthetics. They were failing math.

"Oh," I said. "That sucks... for him."

Cassie laughed, and it was this sound that made something inside me wake up, alive after weeks of feeling dead. "Yeah. He's basically lost at sea. But he's trying, which is more than I can say for most people."

"Tell me about it," I said, and I meant it.

"You want to walk back with us?" She nodded toward Barnaby. "He seems to like me."

My cat would definitely judge me for what happened next—for how I abandoned Operation Spy, for how I walked and talked with Cassie about everything from music to teachers who shouldn't be allowed near children, for how we exchanged numbers and she texted me first that night.

But you know what? Miso could judge all she wanted. I was done feeling like a zombie. I was done watching from the edges.

Some friends you plan. Some friends you find when your dog makes a complete fool of himself and the universe decides to cut you a break.