After hanging up the phone and curling up, he couldn’t get himself to sleep, couldn’t find comfort in the loneliness, couldn’t get settled, even when the kitten crawled up into his lap and attempted to nuzzle him for no reason.

One hand laid across grey fur, fingers lazily, absently stroking, and a tiny little heart thumped as a purr resounded happily.

“Must be nice to be a cat,” he mumbled to himself, burying his face in the pillows. “Never really have all that much to worry about. Just snuggle and purr, get fed and sleep, right? Silly cat.”

It mewed.

All the while it was being touched, the grey furball just hoped with all the hope that a tiny thing can muster, that it would prove valuable to this new green-eyed person, and that whatever it’d done to merit being left, it’d never do again.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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