Part 5

That evening, you sat in the living room, pale and trembling. You told me you didn’t want to sleep. Feared closing your eyes. Your eyes were full of accusation. But exhaustion won quickly. Your words slurred. Your eyelids dropped.

You staggered to your bedroom. You didn’t call me to follow.

I followed anyway.

I lay there as always. Always on the same side. The side farthest from the door. You seemed comforted by that.

You wanted to say something. But didn’t.

And almost immediately, your breathing faltered.

The dream had started.

Your chest rose. Stopped. Hitched. Desperately dragged in air.

You whimpered.

Then your back arched sharply off the mattress, as if some invisible force had yanked your spine upward.

Your hand shot out toward me.

I couldn’t move.

This is how it happens, I thought.

Instinct held me still.

Your mouth opened. A strange cry tore from your throat. A plaintive yowl. Drawn-out and catlike.

Your hand gripped the mattress, tufted paws skittering on the sill, claws raking into the painted wood.

Shadows approached.

The air thickened.

Something, the finality of it, was already in the room.

Your breath turned to wet gasps.

Your eyes popped. You looked at me. Really looked.

And I knew you understood.

Not consciously. Not logically.

But some part of you recognized the truth of why I’d stayed with you. Why the dreams came. Why you’d chosen me. Why I’d let you.

You reached for me again. Not to stop me.

Your arm trembled violently.

Your eyes were frantic and pleading and full of a terrible clarity.

I moved.

Slowly.

Closing over the twisted quilt.

Curled up at your side. The way the sea curves into the shoreline.

Your breath rattled like pebbles in your throat.

You whispered something I couldn’t understand. Or maybe I understood it too well.

You looked at me, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

And I knew I was your comfort. The thing you needed most. The witness.

The sad, shy boy you needed.

The one who’d stay.

So I did.

I always do.

I touched your wrist.

Your heartbeat faltered against my touch.

Your breaths shortened.

Your lips parted.

Your body shuddered.

And then. Everything stopped. Except me.

I stayed curled at your side.

I didn’t run. I didn’t cry out. I didn’t call for help.

I never do.

I watched you grow still, cold. Watched the last tremor fade from your fingers.

I watched you during the moments your eyes lost their focus, clouding the very image of my vigil.

It’s strange, now, remembering the night we met. How you walked up to me in that crowded, noisy place. How you smiled and said hi like you already knew me. How you reached out with those cold, trembling hands and lifted me – so gently – into your embrace.

I felt everything then: every tremor, every falter beneath your ribs.

Felt your heart stutter, its weakness hidden so far beneath your skin, beneath your armour, the final threads of it already fraying inside, like the leaf-patterned curtains drawn against your window.

Knew the end was near. That I had to be there.

Didn’t want to be. Absolutely not.

Could have resisted. Could have turned you down.

Should have run to the other side of the room, hidden myself, and stayed out of sight until you gave up and left.

But I never ever like making a fuss.

So when you reached for me, I let you.

I always do.

You carried me all the way from the shelter to your home.

And I settled into the space you made for me.

Where I kept vigil.

And curled beside your cooling body, purring.