06/22/2025
Lena had never been a cat person. Or, at least, that’s what she always told herself. She preferred the quiet of books, the predictability of schedules, and a world where nothing could surprise her.
Then came Leo.
A tiny, matted ginger kitten had shown up on her doorstep one cold November evening, shivering and weak. She told herself she wouldn’t keep him. She’d feed him, warm him up, and find him a home. But the way he curled against her chest that first night, his purr like a fragile heartbeat, made her realize—he had already chosen his home.
Years passed, and Leo became her constant. He sat beside her as she read, curled against her when she cried, and nudged her hand when she forgot to take a break. He never asked for much, just love and a little space on her lap.
Then one day, the world became too quiet.
Leo, now old and tired, no longer jumped onto her desk or followed her from room to room. He simply watched her from his spot by the window, his once-bright eyes soft with age. She knew the time was near.
On his last night, she held him close, whispering the words she had never dared to say aloud before. “I wasn’t a cat person before you, Leo. But you made me one.”
His purr was faint but steady, as if to say, I know.
And then, just like that, he was gone.
Lena’s house felt emptier, but her heart—her heart was forever full. Because love, the kind Leo gave her, never truly leaves. It just stays, quiet and warm, like a cat curled up in the sun. See less