You first saw the cat on a quiet Tuesday, perched neatly on the edge of the curb like it belonged there. A little scruffy, a little cautious. It didn’t move when you passed, just blinked at you slowly, like it had been waiting.

You couldn’t take it home—not with your current situation. But the next day, and the one after that, it was there again. Always in the same spot. Always watching.

So you started bringing food. Just a small packet at first, something easy to slip into your bag. You didn’t name it, didn’t try to touch it. You just placed the food down and sat nearby, letting the silence fill the space between you.

Over time, the cat began to expect you. A soft meow. A flick of its tail. You grew used to that brief pause in your day—those five, maybe ten minutes that felt untouched by the rest of the world.

But then, one afternoon, you turned the corner and froze.

There was already food there.

You stared, confused. It wasn’t your brand. A little ceramic bowl, too—clean and clearly reused. The cat looked up at you, almost smug.

Someone else was feeding it.

You tried not to read into it. Maybe a neighbor. Someone else with a soft spot and the same excuse. But it kept happening. Some days your food was untouched, other days the bowl was already empty and cleaned.

You started wondering who it was.

Then, one rainy evening, you couldn’t ignore the feeling anymore.

Umbrella in hand, shoes soaked, you walked to the curb out of habit—and saw him.

A guy crouched beside the cat, soaked through from head to toe, dark hair dripping rain, hoodie clinging to his back. He hadn’t noticed you yet. He was completely focused, shielding the cat with his body, whispering something low like a secret meant just for her.

You stopped in your tracks.

The cat looked up.

And then—so did he.