Today is my birthday, but it feels like just another forgotten day in my quiet, lonely world. I am sick—my body aches, my fur is patchy, and one of my eyes hasn’t opened properly in days. I’m weak, and I can barely move from the corner I’ve curled up in, hoping the cold wind won’t find me. Nobody has come to see me, no one has said a word, not even a whisper of “happy birthday.” I don’t have a home, I don’t have a family, and I don’t know what love feels like. People pass me by every day, some don’t notice me, others stare for a moment before turning away. I hear them say I’m ugly, that I look scary or sick. And maybe I do. Maybe I don’t deserve to be loved because I’m not beautiful, because I’m broken. But in my heart, I’m just a little cat who wants to be seen, to be touched kindly, to be told that I matter. I’ve lived on these streets for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be warm, to be safe. I thought maybe today, just today, someone might stop and notice me—that someone might bring a little candle, a little treat, or even just a gentle word. But the day has passed slowly, and no one came. I feel invisible. And as I lie here, shivering and exhausted, I wonder if anyone will ever look past my wounds and see the soft, desperate soul inside me. I’m not asking for much—just a chance, a home, a little love. Just someone to hold me and say, “You’re not alone.” But for now, it’s just me, the cold air, the silence, and the quiet hope that maybe tomorrow, someone will see me. Even if I am sick, even if I am blind and unwanted, I still dream that one day, someone will say, “You deserve to be loved. Happy birthday.”
