The Pet-Sitter's Panic

Jordan's dm popped up on Tuesday: "hey, can you watch my pets this weekend? family emergency." My thumb hovered over the screen. Jordan, with their perfect hair and that smile that made geometry class tolerable. I'd been strategically *not* thinking about them for weeks.

"Sure," I typed. "What pets?" Because Jordan had never mentioned having any.

"Just Barnaby (cat) and Neptune (goldfish). Super chill. You'll vibe."

**Vibe.** Jordan said *vibe.* Meanwhile I was over here having entire crises in the bathroom mirror before first period.

Friday afternoon found me in Jordan's room, which smelled like sandalwood and the *exact* same vanilla candle I bought last week. Barnaby, an orange tabby with serious 'tude, immediately judged my entire existence. Neptune, the goldfish, did literal laps in his bowl like he was training for something important.

Jordan's phone buzzed. Their mom. "Gotta go," they said, grabbing their bag. "There's snacks. Make yourself at home. Netflix code's on the fridge." They paused at the door. "Thanks, Nico. You're a lifesaver."

The door clicked shut.

I stood there, suddenly hyper-aware that I was alone in Jordan Miller's bedroom, and if that wasn't enough pressure, I was responsible for keeping two living things alive for 48 hours.

Barnaby meowed, demanding.

"Okay, okay," I said, like I could converse with cats now. "What do you want?" He led me to the kitchen, sat by his bowl, and stared until I figured out the food situation. Neptune got his flakes. I got a granola bar and Jordan's couch.

Saturday blurred into a rhythm I didn't hate. Feed the cat. Feed the fish. Scroll through Jordan's Netflix queue (we had disturbingly similar taste). Lie on their bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder what they'd think if they knew I spent actual time analyzing our three-minute conversations for hidden meanings.

Sunday afternoon, Barnaby escaped onto the roof. I spent twenty minutes **running** after him through neighborhood backyards while Neptune watched judgmentally through the window. I finally cornered Barnaby behind a shed, breathless and sweaty, clutching a disgruntled orange cat like he was a prize I'd won.

Jordan got home Sunday evening to find me asleep on their couch, Barnaby purring on my chest, Neptune doing peaceful laps in his bowl nearby.

"Hey," Jordan whispered, and I jolted awake, cat tumelling onto the floor.

We made eye contact for three seconds too long.

"Your cat's a menace," I said.

Jordan laughed, and it was better than geometry class. "Thanks for staying. With them, I mean." They rubbed the back of their neck. "I'm glad it was you."

"Yeah," I said, heart doing something concerning. "Me too."

Maybe I wasn't running from anything anymore. Or maybe I was just starting to figure out what was worth running toward.