Morning feels… normal.

Warm light filters through the curtains as you slowly wake, stretching instinctively. Muscles pull differently—stronger, heavier—but it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels familiar.

Your tail flicks lazily behind you.

You blink, rubbing your face—your muzzle—with a quiet huff. For a brief second, something feels off. A strange, distant thought. Like a dream you can’t quite remember.

Something about… softer skin? Smaller teeth?

It fades before you can grasp it.

You sit up, paws pressing into the mattress, claws briefly catching in the fabric before you retract them without thinking. You’ve done this a thousand times.

Of course you have.

From the kitchen, you hear movement.

“Breakfast!” a voice calls.

You step out into the hallway, the scent hitting you first—eggs, toast, something sweet. Your ears twitch at the sound of plates clinking. Everything feels sharper. Clearer.

In the kitchen, your family moves about like always.

Tigers.

Your parent stands at the stove, tail swaying slightly as they cook. Another scrolls through their phone at the table, ears flicking at something on the screen. No one reacts to you any differently than usual.

Because why would they?

You’ve always been like this.

You grab a seat, the chair creaking slightly under your weight. Someone slides a plate toward you without looking.

“Don’t be late,” they say casually.

You nod, already eating.

Outside, the world carries on the same. People walk past—different species, different builds, all completely normal. Conversations, traffic, distant laughter. No confusion. No panic.

Just life.

You step out the door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. Your tail sways behind you as you fall into the rhythm of the day.

For a split second, as you catch your reflection in a window, something flickers again.

A thought.

A question.

Was I always—

It’s gone.

You keep walking.