The Cat Who Knew Everything

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter beside Sebastian's empty bowl. My cat stared at me with those judging yellow eyes, as if asking why I was still feeding him premium salmon when I could barely afford rent.

'This is just like that time in Barcelona,' Elena said, stacking boxes with aggressive efficiency. 'Remember? You were swimming in the Mediterranean, convinced you'd drown, while I drank wine on the beach.'

That wasn't how I remembered it. I remembered her hand on my thigh, the salt on her skin, the way she'd whispered that we'd grow old together. Now she was leaving me for Marcus—my friend, my doubles partner, the man who'd been spying on my startup for eighteen months while we played padel every Tuesday.

The worst part wasn't the betrayal. It was the mundanity of it. Marcus hadn't even been a good spy. He'd missed the quarterly projections, the patent filings, the fact that our investors were pulling out. Everything he'd stolen was already obsolete.

'You know,' I said, watching Elena tape another box, 'Sebastian liked Marcus better.'

The cat chose that moment to vomit on the rug.

Elena sighed. 'That's not true. Cats can sense authenticity.' She paused, cardboard cutter hovering. 'Are you going to be okay?'

The question caught me off guard. We'd been together seven years, and she was asking if I'd be okay now?

'I'm going to play padel,' I said. 'Marcus cancelled. Something about a prior commitment.'

She flinched. Good.

That evening, I drove to the club alone. The courts were empty, floodlights casting long shadows across the artificial turf. I served ball after ball into the chain-link fence, imagining Marcus's face, Elena's laugh, the way they'd looked at each other last Christmas—lingering a fraction too long over cocktails while I discussed funding rounds.

Somewhere around the hundredth serve, my shoulder screamed. I collapsed onto the bench, sweat stinging my eyes, and realized I was crying.

A stray cat—a tuxedo like Sebastian—watched from the perimeter fence. It didn't judge. It just sat there, tail twitching, witnessing my pathetic breakdown with feline indifference.

The thing about hitting rock bottom: eventually you stop swimming and realize you can stand.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Marcus. He didn't answer. I left a message: 'You're fired from the company. Also, Elena's allergic to cats. Have fun explaining the sneezing.'

The tuxedo cat meowed, almost like it approved.