The Cat Who Saved Me from Myself

I was basically a walking zombie by Friday afternoon. Three tests, two projects, and the endless performance of being "fine" had turned my brain into mush. When Jake messaged about padel at the rec center, I almost bailed. Again.

"You coming or what?" His text read. "We're down a player."

I stared at my cat, Barnaby, who was sprawled across my keyboard like he owned the place. He blinked slowly, judging me.

"Fine," I typed back. "Whatever."

The rec center smelled like sweat and rubber. Mia was already on the court, destroying Ethan with her signature cross-court forehand. She looked effortless in her oversized hoodie, hair in a messy bun that probably took twenty minutes.

"About time," she called when I walked in. "We thought you died."

"Basically," I muttered, grabbing a racket.

We played. Or I tried to, while my arms felt like lead and my head was still in chemistry class. I missed an easy shot. Then another. Jake and Ethan exchanged looks—the kind that said, "should we ask what's wrong?" or "maybe just let it go."

They let it go. Because that's what guys do. That's what we all do, skate over the real stuff until it cracks open anyway.

Then I saw a cat through the glass wall. A stray, sleek and black like Barnaby, padding along the edge of the building like she owned the place. She stopped, sat, and started watching us through the glass, completely unbothered.

"That's weird," Mia said, noticing where I was looking.

The cat just watched. No judgment. No expectations. Just a creature being exactly what she was.

Something snapped. Not in a bad way—in a way where I realized I'd been trying to play someone else's game all week. Performing, people-pleasing, running on caffeine and anxiety.

I served. Actual serve, not the half-hearted junk I'd been tossing out. Ace.

"Damn," Ethan said. "Where'd that come from?"

I looked at the cat. She flicked her tail and walked away.

"Just needed to wake up," I said.

We played until the center closed. I sucked at first, then got worse, then suddenly wasn't thinking about it and started playing decent. Mia high-fived me. Jake did that shoulder bump thing. Normal stuff. Real stuff.

When I got home, Barnaby was still on my bed. I flopped down next to him, exhausted but actually awake for the first time in days.

"You were right," I told him.

He purred, kneading my blanket with that smug look cats get when they know they're smarter than you.

"Don't get used to it."

Saturday I slept until noon. No alarm. No performance. Just me, a cat, and the realization that maybe it's okay to be exactly who you are—zombie moments and all.