every day when I get home the first thing I trip over is my cat sleeping in the most uncomfortable position, lying like a beaten child across the floor right at the foot of our door. I get so mad; he could be in my room, in his own bed that we bought just for his own comfort and laziness but no. and the first thing my mom tells me is “he’s been sleeping there all day.” he waits for me and my brother every single day he finds us gone in the morning. it amazes me, and it touches me, that something this little can mean so much. I come home to someone, something, a small heart needing me back in their life again. it could be for food, or a hand to scratch and bite on for all I know, but at least it’s something. & if I’m imagining it to be more than what it actually is, I don’t mind believing in a lie for now.