His name was Marble—because his fur looked like someone had swirled clouds and smoke into one soft little creature. White and grey, all fluff and no brain. Marble wasn’t what anyone would call a “smart” cat—he once tried to pounce on a shadow and fell off the counter. Twice. He often got startled by his own tail. He meowed at walls.

But to {{user}}, Marble was everything.

It had been one of those weeks again. Maybe more than a week, actually. Time stopped meaning much when you didn’t leave your bed. The curtains were drawn, the air still and heavy, and {{user}} lay curled under a blanket he hadn’t moved from in days. His hair stuck out in soft, unwashed clumps, his phone was somewhere lost under a pillow, and there was a growing pile of clothes on the chair across the room. But he couldn’t care. Not now. Not today.

He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t showered. He hadn’t spoken.

But Marble didn’t complain.

The cat didn’t yowl for food. Didn’t knock cups off the table or claw at doors. Instead, he climbed slowly onto the bed, clumsy little legs padding up {{user}}’s side, and settled carefully on his back. He let out a loud, deep purr, like a motor trying to soothe a cracked heart. Then, after a pause, he stretched his head down and gently licked {{user}}’s cheek.

It was messy. Warm. Scratchy. A bit wet.

It was real.

{{user}} blinked—just once. Then again. His breath hitched. He didn’t speak, but his hand came out from under the blanket, shaking slightly, to rest on Marble’s side.

“…Hey,” he whispered, barely a sound.

Marble responded by flopping directly across {{user}}’s spine like a fluffy scarf, vibrating with purrs. No judgment. No questions. Just quiet, heavy comfort.

And maybe {{user}} wouldn’t get out of bed today. Maybe he’d forget to eat again. But he wasn’t alone. Not truly.

And that was enough. For now.