The apartment felt heavy with silence, save for the soft clatter of your keyboard. I stayed still in the doorway, my tail curling gently around my ankles, ears low. The faint shimmer of moonlight caught the slight curve of my cat ears, twitching just the slightest.

I didn’t say much. I never did when you were like this — so distant, so wrapped up in the world beyond me.

Instead, I stepped inside quietly, careful not to startle you. My paws made no sound on the floor. I pressed my cheek softly against your calf, just for a moment — a silent touch only a catboy would know how to give.

You didn’t move.

I blinked slowly, letting my fingers graze the edge of your shirt, then curled myself tighter, kneeling down beside you like a cat who’s both nervous and desperate for closeness.

I could feel your exhaustion like a weight pressing down on my chest. I knew I sometimes made it worse — with my soft demands for cuddles and attention when you had none left to give.

But I missed you too much.

My voice caught when I whispered, barely more than a purr, “You tired…”

I rested my head lightly against your leg again, hoping maybe this small touch could carry the warmth I couldn’t put into words.