Fluffy

The new school was spotless, polished, and full of promise. For the teachers, he was a blank slate; for the students, he was just another new face and one they shunned. He didn't mind at first, at least, that's what he kept telling himself. But days turned into weeks, and the silence wrapping him got heavier. His steps echoed in corridors, and his voice was swallowed by the void whenever he tried to utter a word.

The home wasn't any better, just shouting backdrop of chaos: slamming doors, raised voices high, his name thrown as if a weapon. When it was possible, he'd retreat to the silence of his room and stare at the cracks in the wall.

Teachers at school criticized him for not even knowing the answers; his mind teeming with racket, he couldn't quite grasp their questions. He stopped raising his hand and stopped trying to meet their eyes. He wasn't excelling anymore. He isn't even trying.

One afternoon, slumped on the staircase near the school's back door, he met her. A cat, white with patches of soft gray, padded over and sat beside him. She cocked her head to one side, the silent question seeming to be, why was he so sad.

"Hello there," he whispered, voice breaking. He reached out cautiously, but she leaned into his hand. "You're soft. I'll call you Fluffy.

She became, from that day on, his secret solace. He would sit on the same staircase every day, awaiting her. And like clockwork, Fluffy would appear, rubbing against his legs, her meows like small bursts of understanding. He started talking to her as if she were human, relaying all his frustrations, his loneliness, his dreams.

When he needed to leave, he would stroke her head gently. And when he came back, the same ritual was performed. For him, when Fluffy meowed, it was an "I love you," and he would whisper in return, "Have a good day."

Others started noticing. Children would walk by and would stare in amazement at just how Fluffy followed him everywhere, beyond steadfast. They would try to pet her to get her attention-but she went right back to his side. It made him feel special; he felt seen. For once in his life, people saw him instead of the derogatory sneers.

He started to enjoy their attention, flaunting Fluffy like a trophy. He basked in their awe, letting himself believe, if only briefly, that he belonged.

But Fluffy didn’t like it. One afternoon, surrounded by too many hands and voices, she bolted.

"Fluffy!" he yelled, his voice cracking as he chased after her. She stopped at the far edge of the field and turned to face him. Her white face wore an expression of sadness; her gray ears were laid back. Then she disappeared among the bushes.

The next day, he sat by the staircase. And the day after that. Fluffy didn't come back. The staircase felt colder and emptier than it had ever been before. He'd realized, too late, what she'd tried to tell him: she wasn't just his escape-he was hers, too. Their conversations had meant something to either of them.

Guilt compelled him to find her. He skipped class, and searched up and down the streets, yelling out her name until his voice was hoarse.

Then he spotted her. Lying in the road, unnaturally still.

"No," he whispered, falling to his knees beside her. Soft fur streaked with dirt; little body limp. He cradled her in his arms and stroked her head one last time.

Fluffy weakly opened her eyes, and a slight meow escaped. He snuffled, and the tears streamed down his face as he whispered, "I love you too."

Fluffy's eyes closed and her body went still.