I wasn’t always like this—cold, scared, and hiding behind trash bins. I once had a name, a warm bed, and someone who held me close. I thought I was loved. But one morning, everything changed.
It was a chilly day. My owner placed me in a box, said nothing, and drove away. I thought we were going to the vet or perhaps the park. But the car stopped by the side of a lonely road. No houses. No people. Just wind and dust. She looked down at me, eyes empty. Then, without a word, she placed the box on the pavement, got back in the car, and drove off.
I waited. Minutes passed. Hours. The sky began to darken. I cried out, thinking she would come back. But she never did.
I don’t know what I did wrong. I always tried to be good. I purred when she touched me. I waited by the door when she came home. I curled up beside her when she was sad. But now I was just… garbage. Something to be discarded.
That night was the first of many cold nights. I found shelter under a broken bench and listened to the passing cars, wondering if one of them carried her. I was too afraid to approach humans. I didn’t trust them anymore. Every time footsteps came near, I ran. I thought they would hurt me like she did.
Days passed. My fur became dirty, my stomach constantly growled with hunger. People walked by, some glancing at me with pity, others with annoyance. I became invisible to most.
One rainy afternoon, I was too weak to move. I lay curled up in a soggy cardboard box, soaked and shivering. I thought I would fall asleep and never wake up. But then… I heard a voice.
It was gentle, soft, and kind. “Hey, sweetheart,” the voice whispered. I didn’t move. I was too scared. But then I felt a warm towel wrap around me. I flinched, expecting pain. But instead, I was held carefully, lovingly. She wasn’t like the others.
She took me home. I didn’t trust her at first. I hissed, hid under the couch, and refused to eat. But she didn’t give up. Every day, she brought me food and spoke to me in that same soft voice. She never forced me, never raised her voice. She simply waited.
Days turned into weeks. And slowly, I came out. I began eating again. I let her touch my fur. One day, I climbed onto her lap and curled up. I had forgotten what it felt like to be warm and safe.
I still have scars—some on my body, many on my heart. But I’m learning to trust again.
Because now, I have someone who sees me as family—not as something disposable.
And for the first time in a long time… I believe I am loved.
