You move into a new place. Boxes are still half unpacked. There’s dust wherever a piece of furniture once stood. And like it’s waiting for someone here, there’s a cat seated already on the hallway. It meets your eyes once, stretches, and then walks away like nothing just happened. No fear, no hiding. Just… acceptance.

It’s not even your cat. You didn’t bring it. Maybe your roommates. Maybe it came with the house. Either way, it knows you are now in its loop. You’re sitting on the couch, and then suddenly it’s in your lap. It looks at you like cats do, with a quiet, odd stare, one that seems to tell you, You are here now. Ive decided youre fine.

There’s something weirdly potent in that. You didn’t work for it. You didn’t bribe it with treats or toys. You simply occupied the same space. That was enough. It believes in you before you’ve even figured out how to work the oven or where the light switches are.

And you begin to talk to it as if it has always been yours. You’re checking to see if it’s eaten, if it’s sleeping okay. It nuzzles in between your legs like you and I have been roomies for years. There’s no big moment. No real introduction. Just a quiet agreement. Youre both here now. Thatll do.