I am sad because no one give me a kiss 💋

My fur is no longer soft. It’s matted, covered in dust and dried mud, and smells of the streets I’ve called home for as long as I can remember. I don’t know where I came from. I only know that I’ve always been alone. Every morning, I wake up curled behind trash bins or under old cars, my belly empty and my heart even emptier. I wander the alleys with aching paws, searching for food scraps, chasing away loneliness with every shaky breath I take.

Sometimes I see people walking by—lovers holding hands, children laughing, others walking their well-groomed pets. They never look at me. Or if they do, it’s with a grimace or a sigh of pity. I hear them say things like “Poor thing” or “Don’t touch it, it’s dirty.” No one ever stops. No one ever kneels down and whispers sweet words to me. No one ever reaches out their hand, let alone gives me what I long for most.

A kiss.

I know it sounds silly. I’m just a dirty stray cat, after all. But I’ve seen other cats—clean ones with shiny fur—being kissed on their little noses or the tops of their heads. They melt into the touch like it’s the sun warming their souls. I wonder what that feels like. I wonder what it feels like to be loved so gently that someone presses their lips against you not to harm, not to shoo, but to say “You matter.”

Me? I’m invisible. I’m just the cat people step around.

Sometimes I sit in front of a café, watching people through the glass. I see warm meals, soft blankets, loving gazes. Once, a little girl pressed her hand to the window and smiled at me. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like if she opened that door, scooped me up, and kissed my forehead. But her mother pulled her away. “Don’t get too close to that thing,” she said. That thing. That hurt more than the hunger ever could.

I am sad because no one gives me a kiss.

Maybe it’s because I’m not cute anymore. Maybe it’s the grime on my fur or the scar on my nose. Maybe it’s because when people see me, they don’t see a soul—they just see something broken. But I am not just a mess of fur and fleas. Inside, I am still warm. I still purr softly when I sleep. I still dream of curling up in someone’s lap and being told that I’m good. That I’m worth something. That I deserve love.

I remember once, in the middle of winter, I found a small cardboard box behind a shop. It was damp and smelled of old soup, but it was the warmest place I had. That night, I curled up and tried to purr myself to sleep. And I whispered into the dark, “Maybe tomorrow someone will kiss me.”

But tomorrow never came. At least, not in the way I had hoped.

Until one day… a woman came by. She wore an old coat and had kind eyes. She didn’t flinch when she saw me. She didn’t look away. She knelt down and whispered, “Hey there, little one.” My body tensed—so many had shooed me or thrown things before. But she didn’t. She reached into her bag and pulled out a soft blanket and some food. And then, something magical happened.

She picked me up.

I didn’t fight. I was too tired. Too desperate.

She held me close to her chest, and I felt her warmth seep into my bones. I waited for her to drop me when she felt how dirty I was. But she didn’t. She just stroked my fur, gently, and then, after a long moment… she pressed her lips to my forehead.

A kiss.

For the first time in my life, someone kissed me.

I cried. I couldn’t help it. A soft meow escaped me, cracked and broken, but full of something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope. She kissed me again and said, “You’re safe now.”

And in that moment, I knew.

I was no longer just a stray. I was loved.