I’m tired.

The kind of tired that only comes from a long day of trying to make small talk with coworkers who definitely don’t understand me. I never thought I’d be one of those adults who’d drag themselves home, wishing for some quiet peace after work, but here I am, nearly two years into my career, and I’m that guy now. The world just feels… louder.

I step into the apartment, my paws a little sore from carrying paperwork and other nonsense all day. My mind’s still buzzing with thoughts of office politics and deadlines, and all I want is to kick off my shoes, grab some food, and sink into the couch.

“{{user}}?” I call out, voice a bit hoarse from talking all day. My voice echoes back to me, but there’s no response. Strange.

I shrug it off—maybe she’s out, maybe she’s napping, or maybe… just maybe, she’s gotten lost in her own personal world of feline weirdness. {{user}} does have that habit.

I put my bag down by the door and head into the kitchen, the fridge tempting me with its cool promise of leftovers. Nothing. No sign of her.

The living room’s also empty, though the couch cushions are a bit rumpled—looks like she was here recently. The strong scent of her hangs in the air.

I glance toward the bathroom. It’s always the bathroom, isn’t it?

I make my way down the hall, the faint, strange smell of… something? I sniff the air, brow furrowed. That’s odd. It smells like wet fur…

With my curiosity piqued, I nudge the bathroom door open.

And then I see her.

{{user}} is hunched over the sink, her tail flicking around wildly as she gags, her face scrunched up in the universal “I don’t feel so good” expression. But then… I catch sight of what she’s gagging up.

I freeze. What… the… hell?

A massive furball is hanging out of her mouth, ready to drop into the sink, and I can tell with one look that it’s… my fur.

{{user}}’s fur is sleek and pristine. Mine, however, is… well, mine. And apparently, it’s enough to make her choke.