My name doesn’t matter. No one has ever given me one.
I live on the streets, under the broken shade of rusted rooftops and behind the forgotten corners of this busy world. Each day, I wander through alleys and gutters, my paws sore from the rough pavement, my belly often aching from hunger. My fur is matted, my ears tattered from too many nights fighting for scraps or defending my spot from other strays. Rain doesn’t ask for permission—it soaks me when it comes, and in the cold, I curl into myself, trying to remember what warmth feels like.
I am a cat.
But I am not the kind people stop to pet.
I am the kind they avoid.
People walk past me as if I don’t exist. Children point and whisper, sometimes even throw stones. Others wrinkle their noses at the sight of me. I don’t blame them—I must look wild, broken, unwanted. My reflection in a puddle sometimes scares me too. I’m just skin and bones now, with hollow eyes that no longer sparkle.
But I wasn’t always like this.
I think… once, a long time ago, I belonged to someone.
I remember vague flashes of warmth. A bowl. A soft bed. Gentle hands.
Then I remember the door closing. The loud car. The silence that followed.
I waited for them to return.
They never did.
Since then, I’ve lived in the shadows. I’ve become invisible. I meow sometimes when I see someone pass by. Just a soft cry, not loud—almost like a question: “Can you see me?” But they keep walking. No one comes close. Not anymore.
I watch from afar as other cats get held in warm arms. I see them through windows, curled up on soft couches, licking their paws peacefully. I wonder what that feels like now. To be loved. To be touched without fear.
Some nights, I dream. In my dreams, someone reaches out a hand—not to push me away, but to lift me up. They smile. They say my name. In the dream, I have a name.
But then I wake up.
Back on the cold ground. Back in the quiet.
The world begins again, and I resume my silent wandering.
Because I am the cat no one dares to come near.
Because I am the cat they all left behind.
Still… deep inside me, there is a small spark that refuses to die.
Maybe, just maybe, someone kind will come one day.
Maybe they’ll kneel beside me and whisper, “You’re safe now.”
Maybe they’ll see past the dirt, the scars, and the fear—and into my heart.
I am lonely.
I am forgotten.
But I am still here.
Waiting.
