The Cat Who Knew I Was Already Gone

The salad sat wilting on my counter—baby spinach, still in the plastic container from Trader Joe's, three days past its sell-by date. Just like me.

I stared at it through eyes that refused to focus properly. Everything had been blurry since the accident. Five months, twelve days, and I was still walking around like some goddamn zombie, hollowed out and operating on muscle memory alone.

Barnaby rubbed against my shin, his orange fur glowing in the harsh kitchen light. He was Thomas's cat, technically. Thomas had been the one who wanted an animal, who had named this obnoxious creature after his favorite uncle. Now Barnaby was my responsibility—a constant, purring reminder of the man who used to make me laugh until my ribs ached.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" I whispered. My voice sounded like someone else's. "That's normal. That's human."

What did I know about being human anymore? I went to work. I answered emails. I nodded during meetings about synergies and deliverables. But inside? Inside I was already dead, just too polite to lie down.

I opened the can of premium wet food—salmon and shrimp, Thomas's favorite brand for him. Barnaby wound between my legs, meowing his insistence. At least one of us could still feel hunger.

The spinach caught my eye again. Thomas had been trying to get us to eat better. "We're not getting any younger," he'd said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. That was three weeks before the truck ran the red light.

I picked up the container and dumped the spinach into the trash. Some performances aren't worth maintaining.

"Fuck it," I said to the empty kitchen. Barnaby looked up from his bowl, whiskers twitching. "We're ordering pizza. Extra cheese. We'll live recklessly."

For the first time in months, something in my chest stirred. Not much. Just the faintest echo of warmth.

The cat purred like a small engine, and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I wasn't entirely gone after all.