I Missed the Meeting, But the Fire Cats Stayed

I’m sitting here watching a strange video—three orange cats, neon-bright, glowing like embers. The number 333 keeps flashing on the screen, and for some reason it feels intentional, like the universe is tapping me on the shoulder instead of shaking me awake. The sound from the TV hums softly, almost like a bonfire crackling on a beach. Fire cats. That’s what they are. I don’t know why that comforts me, but it does.

I missed my meeting with my teacher today. Slept through it. Slept through most of the day, actually. When I finally woke up, my phone had messages waiting—one from Jahon, one from Eric. Eric is the complicated one. The one I blocked. The one who somehow still managed to reach out on Facebook. Seeing his name made my stomach drop, but I answered anyway. I don’t even know why. Curiosity? Loneliness? Habit? Probably all three.

Right now, I’m surviving on timers. Little alarms telling me when to move, when to think, when to pretend I’m functional. Even with that system, I’m falling behind. I can feel it. The pile of paperwork on the floor doesn’t bother me, though. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Hunger flickers in my chest, but I’m pretty sure I finished the last of the hamburger earlier. Or maybe I just want to believe I did.

Despite all this, I’m enjoying this moment. That feels wrong to admit, but it’s true. The world feels slowed down, softer around the edges. Like it’s letting me breathe for once.

Then my mind drifts—Victor floats up in my thoughts, uninvited. He was 25. I wonder, briefly, what would happen if Victor and Eric ever crossed paths. Would they fight? No. Probably not. That thought fades as quickly as it arrived, replaced by nothing in particular. Popcorn, maybe. The memory of it, at least.

I think I’m writing just to steal ten more minutes from the day. My head is pounding, a deep, throbbing ache behind my eyes. I debate taking acetaminophen, holding the bottle in my hand like it’s a philosophical question instead of a painkiller. I don’t decide. I rarely do.

What do I want right now? I want my stone. My labradorite. It grounds me, keeps my thoughts from scattering everywhere. I had it in bed, I swear I did. Now it’s gone. Missing, like a piece of myself slipped into another dimension. I want to lie down, but I know if I do, I’ll just absorb everything around me without producing anything. Input mode. I hate that feeling, so I fight it.

I woke up twenty-two minutes late. That number keeps replaying in my head like it’s personally insulting me. At least I didn’t take my computer out—small mercies. No backpack to pack, no extra decisions to make. Still, I hate where I live. The walls feel heavy, like they’re pressing in on me, dragging my energy down.

Eric keeps hovering at the edges of my thoughts. He’s offering something. Help? Escape? Convenience? It feels off, whatever it is. Too strange to trust. And yet… living closer to Salem would make things easier. If we were just roommates, if rides were just rides—maybe it could work. Or maybe that’s me bargaining with myself again.

I tell myself I’m happy. Or at least energized. That has to count for something. Still missing the stone, though.

I’m playing Pixie Road, but it feels wrong, like I opened the game in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go with it, or with anything. I made rules for myself—imaginary ones—and now I’m breaking them. So I return to the to-do list like it’s a lifeline.

ASMR hums softly from YouTube. Whispering, tapping, gentle sounds meant to soothe. It helps. My headache loosens its grip, just a little.

A random word pops into my head: insect.

Then: mantis.

I shake it off. I tell myself I’m in control now. Whatever weird spiritual static was buzzing earlier, it’s quiet. I have two hours until school starts. Two hours to become a person again.

I flip through my ogham book, reading about the Faeda and Forfeda—branches, letters, stones carved with meaning. Loan letters for foreign sounds. Adaptation etched into rock. It makes sense to me in a way most things don’t. I wish I could find my labradorite. I know it was here.

I keep writing because stopping feels dangerous. I didn’t allow any channeling today. Barely let an insect thought slip through. Still, I’m scared. Not of anything specific—just scared of what comes next. My body is relaxing now that the pain is fading, and that somehow makes it harder to move.

In the background, an interview plays. Someone named Key says the word “murderer,” and it cuts through the room like a blade.

I pause.

The fire cats are still glowing.

The bonfire still crackles.

And for this exact moment, that’s enough.