Today's incident and grief for my dearest

I searched for her for days, calling softly, listening to every quiet space, hoping for even the smallest meow to guide me, remembering how she used to come and go on her own terms, angry sometimes, stubborn sometimes, but always returning. I waited by the gate during cold winter days, looked in the places she liked to stay, tried to trust that she would come back like she always did. When I finally found her, it was not the moment I had imagined, not the reunion I had prayed for — it was her body, cold and still, lying on the floor where she had ended, and my hands touched her before my mind could stop me, because I needed to know, because love does that, because how could I not touch her when she had once been so warm in my arms. I saw the marks on her neck, the signs of struggle, the wounds that told me she had been attacked by another, stronger cat, and I knew — deep inside — that this was not my fault, not because I touched her, not because of any poison, not because I loved her too much. She fought, and she lost, and that truth hurts more than any blame anyone could throw at me.

What hurt almost as much as losing her was how alone I felt afterward — being blamed, being told not to cry, being told she was “just an animal,” while for me she was never that. She was my companion when I was drowning emotionally, the quiet presence that steadied me when my mind was loud, the small body that curled near me and made the world feel softer. She stayed with me during hours of sadness, during moments when I didn’t know how to exist, and somehow her presence made me healthier, calmer, more alive. And yet, I wasn’t allowed to bury her, wasn’t allowed to give her warm soil or a goodbye that felt human. I had to watch as her body was taken away carelessly, as jokes were made nearby, as if her life had meant nothing — while I stood there holding grief too heavy for my chest, knowing I would remember this forever.

I replay everything again and again — the time I heard a faint meow and searched but couldn’t find her, the nights I closed doors thinking I was keeping her warm elsewhere, the way she used to try to come into my room to sleep with me, especially toward the end when she seemed weaker, choosing corners of the cold floor instead of my lap. I wonder if she was sick, if she was hurting more than I realized, if one moment of courage or one opened door could have changed something. And yet, even through the guilt, I know I loved her deeply and did the best I could with what I had. I didn’t abandon her. I didn’t cause her pain. I cared, fiercely, in a world that often doesn’t make space for grief like mine.

Now my appetite is gone, my body feels fragile, my health feels like it’s slipping, and my exam waits even though my heart isn’t ready. I still try to eat because I know I have to. I still try to stand because I have no choice. Losing her has reopened every old wound — the rabbits I lost, the cats that went missing, the memories of death I have seen too young — and it all comes back at once, heavy and unstoppable. But I also know this: the depth of my grief exists only because the bond was real. Loving her was real. She mattered. And even if no one else understands, even if the world feels cruel and dismissive, I carry her warmth with me still, quietly, painfully, lovingly — and that will never be nothing.