He’s sleeping again.

He’s always sleeping.

Even when he’s not, he’s not really here. Not anymore. Not the way he used to be.

When I first moved in things were different. It’s not that I was never sad, never anxious, I’d be lying if I said that. Maybe more to myself than to anyone else. But it was a different kind of sadness. One that came from a different place. One that didn’t ache like this.

Back then, my heart sank every morning he’d slide his polished work boots out from under the bed and lace them up. I just couldn’t bear to see him leave for another day. Not that I even understood what that meant, for something to be truly unbearable. Not yet. It’s so silly thinking back to it. It’s not like he could have taken me to work. It wasn’t that kind of job.

But at the time everything was all so new. I just wanted to spend every moment of every day with him. I still remember how sweet he was back then. The softness of his touch. The sweetness of his kisses. The way he never left without saying those three precious words. Especially when he’d spot me peeking around the corner. Then I’d run to him and he’d laugh as he swallowed me in his arms. I felt those words more than he ever knew. I love you.

It took months for me to get used to him being gone. Me alone in this house, the house that would become our home. And a home that would eventually decay into whatever cold and hollow thing it is now.

He always came home exhausted, but he never complained. Never said anything. For a while I was offended by his reluctance to touch me, to be close to me. In those first few moments. But I was patient and learned the routine. He needed to shed his work clothes like a snake sheds its skin and dispose of their stink in the laundry basket. Then he’d shower and wash away whatever sticky memories of the day still clung. I tried to tell him he didn’t need to, that it didn’t repulse me. I was just so happy he was finally home. But the ritual was just as much for him as it was for me.

When he’d get out from the shower, he was always so happy to see me. And even though he never talked about the bad things that happened that day, I could sense it. I could tell what kind of day he had simply by how he held me.

Now I have a confession to make. Back then, before I knew what it would cost, I wished for the bad days. I know it’s terrible but how could I have known? The only thing I knew for certain was on those days he’d hold me longer, hold me tighter. Hold me in that way you hold someone you love so completely you never want to let them go.

I felt so safe in those arms. And maybe I just wanted to feel like I mattered, really mattered. Because when he held me like that I could feel the weight of those bad days lift and then he could breathe easier. That was my power, my gift to him. At least that’s what I thought at the time.

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. It was the small things at first. Things I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Things I told myself didn’t matter.

His boots were the first sign. He used to polish them every night, humming under his breath while he worked them to an impossible shine before carefully placing them under the bed. I’d watch from the doorway, feeling warm just being near him. But then one day the boots were there and the shine was gone. A few days later a scuff appeared. Then more. Soon they looked like a ledger of every bad day layered one on top of the other.

After a while he didn’t even bother tucking them under the bed anymore, not caring where they landed. At first I was sure it’d been an accident but when I walked towards them he slammed his fist into the table and shouted, “Leave them!” I only made that mistake one more time a few weeks later.

His work clothes changed too. He used to peel them off after work and toss them straight into the hamper. Now they’d sit in a heap by the door, stiff with sweat and dust. He started wearing the same clothes for days on end. The stink of old sweat and grime was repugnant. I couldn’t understand why. Why was he doing this to himself? To me?

The way he held me changed too. It used to be warm and lingering. I could feel his whole body relax, like I was the only thing in the world that made any sense. But it had become shorter. Colder. It felt like habit, not love. I tried to squeeze him tighter, to press myself against him the way I used to. Hoping I could push the bad days out of his mind. But it didn’t work. My power was gone.

He used to say “I love you” every morning before he left and every night before we went to bed. I lived for those words.

But then one morning they never came.

I told myself he was in a hurry. That he didn’t see me. That he’d say it later. But he never did.

The days started eating at him. Piece by piece. Until one day, he came home and didn’t hold me at all. He just sat at the table, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen him cry before.

It wasn’t long after that he stopped going to work. The boots he kicked off stood like dusty tombstones on the front porch. He hasn’t spoken much since then. He usually stays in bed.

Sleeping.

Always sleeping.

But on those rare occasions when he’s not, he isn’t the same man I used to know. His anger scares me. The flash of pure lightning when it ignites. The thunder of his fist slamming on the table. Dishes clattering, floor rumbling. And then that glare. The look that pierces right through me, right down to the bone.

I’ve learned how to read the signals. Eyes unblinking, teeth grinding, breath fevered, fists clenched. I can see it coming, so now I avoid him. Sometimes I even hide hoping he forgets.

But for now, he’s still sleeping. And I’m still here, curled into a ball. Eyes thick with tears. Trying to figure out what I did wrong. Hoping he comes back to me. The man he used to be. Because even when he frightens me I can’t stop loving him. How could I?

I’m just a cat after all.