The Day I Lost My Cat and Found Myself

Date: 12/26/2025

Panic wears me like a second skin. I’m tearing through the street like I’ve misplaced my soul and it’s learned to crawl. “Monkey!” I shout, dropping to my knees, peering under cars, clawing through bushes, palms scraped raw by gravel and thorns. Monkey — my cat, my constant, my small, warm proof of continuity — is missing. And the hysteria that grips me feels outsized, theatrical, almost embarrassing, as though losing him has loosened the seams holding me together. Then I see her. Someone stands in the middle of the road, arms outstretched — not waving, not signalling — just yielding. A car barrels towards her, headlights glaring, horn blaring like accusation. I sprint, heart stuttering, lungs burning. And as I get closer, my stomach folds in on itself. It’s me. Or a replica. An echo. A version left behind. Same eyes — dull, hollow, glazed, unanchored, looking through the world rather than at it. Same tear-streaked cheeks, mapped with old grief and fresh exhaustion. Same posture of defeat, shoulders slumped like she’s been carrying something far too heavy for far too long. She looks profoundly lost. Like someone who has been wading through an oppressive haze for decades, and has forgotten who she is. She meets my gaze. There’s recognition there. And relief. As if she’s been waiting for me to catch up. Before I can touch her — before I can say I’m here. I’ve got you. — Poof. She disappears. Not dramatically. Not enough to be noticed. She dissolves. Slipping into the same nothingness she looks like she’s been living in. The same nothingness I’ve been carrying around inside me. “Did you see that?” I ask a woman standing nearby, breathless, desperate. She’s rigid. Clipboard hugged to her chest like a shield. Glasses perched with authority. The sort of woman who writes things down and makes them official. “There’s nobody there, Amanda,” she says, her voice clipped. Final. “Amanda?” I echo. My name sounds foreign in her mouth. Wrong note. Wrong tone. “We’d better get you inside.” The street folds in on itself, reshaping into something more sinister — otherwise known as work. I’m on a round I don’t recognise, streets looping and narrowing like a disgruntled origami — over-folded, badly creased, refusing to make sense. Ade is beside me, solid and familiar, Royal Mail bags slung over our shoulders like burdens carried. We’re armed with a decrepit paper map — corners torn, ink smudged — disintegrating a little more each time we unfold it. Ade studies it calmly. Patient. Unbothered. I admire him. The way he seems to take everything in his stride. Like stress just slides off him. Like he’s figured out the trick the rest of us missed. I wish — painfully — that I were built like that. We walk. We trust the map. We trust ourselves. Dead end. Brick wall. No way through. “Ah shit,” I mutter. “Where to now?” It lands heavy. Not just about the route. A man approaches, eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “You look ill,” he says. “I’m fine,” I snap, too fast, too sharp. “No,” he insists. “You look really unwell. Pale. Awful, actually.” Bloody charming. Heat crawls up my neck. I glance at Ade, searching for reassurance — but his expression falters for just a fraction too long. Pity. Or worse — Sympathy. And it hits me then: maybe we aren’t lost because of the map. Maybe we’re just as lost as each other. That thought follows me into the doctor’s surgery. The waiting room closes in. Time drips instead of moves. I don’t know how to sit. I fidget, cross and uncross my legs, flex my hands, then realise I don’t know what to do with them either. I tuck them under my thighs to stop them wandering off on their own. Seconds crawl. I pray for them to hurry. I check my phone and my stomach nearly drops out of my body. My appointment isn’t at 8:45. It was 8:15. Missed. Of course it was. I tried so hard. Wrote it down. Planned. Organised. Told myself this time I’ve got it together. And yet again — I’ve failed. Another royal fuck up to add to my list of many. At reception, I explain, voice wobbling. “No doctors are available now,” the receptionist chirps, cheerful as a gravestone. “But I need approval that I’m safe to drive,” I plea. “I’ll get sacked otherwise.” There’s a commotion behind the scenes, and suddenly they drag out a man who looks like he was plucked at random from a bus stop and shoved into a white coat. Ruffled hair. Wild eyes. Coat several sizes too big. “Will I be able to drive?” I ask, desperate for him to say yes. He answers in riddles. Metaphors. Half-sentences that lead nowhere. It’s like listening to someone fluent in nonsense. Pure gobbledegook. I don’t trust him for a second. I can see the seams. The costume. The performance. In the corner, a huddle of people glare at me. A chorus of tuts, sighs and judgement. I’ve committed the unforgivable sin of cutting the queue. I glare back. You can wait, you bastards. This is my breakdown. To them, I’m not a person — I’m a delay. A nuisance. A hiccup in the smooth running of society. An inconvenience that should hurry up and disappear. I feel small. Disposable. “Fuck it,” I say finally, deflated. “I’m leaving.” Town bleeds in next. Ash walks beside me, talking nonstop, filling the air so I don’t have to. Then we pass a busker — playing a tune I recognise — and my blood runs cold. He’s there. My stalker. I know it with terrifying certainty. Months of watching, following, measuring. My skin prickles, trying to crawl away from my bones. “That’s him,” I whisper. “He’s been stalking me.” Ash looks. Concern flickers — then doubt. He looks ordinary. Harmless. And I hate that doubt, because it echoes my own. Because what does a stalker look like? Anyone. Everyone. Or no one at all. Home should be safe. It isn’t. The clipboard woman is inside, like she’s always belonged there. “You haven’t been well, have you?” she says gently. “I’m fine,” I snap. “You’ve been seeing things,” she continues. “Talking to people who don’t exist.” I want to argue. I want to laugh. I want to scream. But then I remember. The woman in the road. The man who said I looked ill. Ade’s pitying eyes. The riddling doctor. The crowd’s glare. They assemble quietly, like a case file. Oh. Maybe I am depressed. Maybe I am lost. Maybe I am isolated in a world that doesn’t understand how loud my head is. When I looked into the eyes of that lost, drifting soul in the middle of the road, the truth didn’t need explaining. “You just need rest,” she says. I wonder whether rest is something else entirely. Maybe it means stopping the search long enough to realise Monkey isn’t the only thing I’ve been looking for. Because somewhere in all this confusion, fear, and dark absurdity — there is still a flicker. A thin, stubborn hope. Joy hiding in the madness. And the possibility that, even now, I might be finding myself again.