Cuddling Demons

“I don’t always fight my demons,” I tell the barista, poking a sugar packet open with my thumb. “Sometimes we cuddle.”

The barista blinks. “That’s… wholesome?”

Behind me, my demon clears his throat. “I prefer the term interspecies détente,” he says, antlers tipping the doorframe. “Also, get two muffins. You forget breakfast when you’re sad.”

“Two muffins,” I tell the barista. “One blueberry, one existential.”

“Cinnamon?” she guesses.

“That’s what I said,” the demon replies, smiling too many teeth.

On the walk home, he holds the muffins in his jaws because his claws are busy with a hydrangea he inexplicably bought. My demon has the shopping impulses of a retired aunt.

“You can’t come in unless I invite you,” I say on the stoop. It’s a ritual. I like rituals. They make my edges less porous.

“You always invite me,” he says, dripping charm and rainwater. “You also say that every time.”

“Shoes off. No setting the kettle on fire with your feelings. No whispering the worst possible outcomes into the cereal.”

“Counteroffer: I whisper only probable outcomes,” he says, stepping in. “Lean optimism.”

“You don’t know the meaning of optimism.”

“I brought hydrangeas,” he says, wounded. “My name is not Despair. It’s Ash.”

“You’ve told me a different name every Wednesday since March.”

“I am multitudes,” Ash says, peering into my cabinets. “We are out of honey.”

We put the kettle on. It huffs like an old uncle and pretends not to enjoy warmth. Ash wraps himself around the kitchen island like a cat made of thunderclouds. His tail flicks, knocking a takeout menu onto the floor. He picks it up and squints at it.

“Do not call Dragon Palace again,” he says firmly. “They keep forgetting your scallions and using your name with that tone.”

“They do not use a tone.”

“They say ‘Alex’ the way a person says ‘fine’ before starting a war.”

I stir tea. He watches the swirl as if it might declare prophecy. When the steam fogs my glasses, he leans in and huffs a little gust of cold air to clear them. It’s infuriatingly thoughtful.

“So,” he says. “Agenda for today. We have therapy at two, a deeply avoidant email to compose at three, and a non-zero chance of crying at 6:17 because you will see your reflection in a window and think about birthdays.”

“I wasn’t planning the crying,” I say.

“No one plans crying,” he says. “That’s why I brought muffins. Also, if we cuddle at seven, it goes better.”

“You cannot pencil in cuddles like a dentist appointment.”

“I can,” he says. “And I did.”

At therapy, Dr. Ramos raises an eyebrow over her glasses. “Are you bringing your companion in?”

“I prefer the term entity,” Ash says, sitting politely on the rug, tail curled around his hooves like a question mark. “I am HIPAA-compliant.”

“I signed a release for him,” I say, cheeks burning.

“It’s helpful to include all parts of you,” Dr. Ramos says mildly. “Ash, what would you like me to know about today?”

“I am worried about the email,” he says. “He is going to write it late, and then he will think lateness equals failure equals cosmic exile.”

“I could just write it on time,” I suggest.

“You could,” he says tenderly.

“Let’s make a plan,” Dr. Ramos says. “Ash, what does Alex need at 2:55?”

“A chair that doesn’t squeak,” he says without hesitation. “A glass of water. A timer. Two sentences prepared in a notes app labeled ‘the first part is always the hardest.’”

“And at 6:17?” she asks.

“Presence,” he says. “Not a lecture. A blanket. The permission to feel ridiculous and still holy.”

On the subway home, Ash offers his seat to a woman with a stroller. The baby gurgles and reaches for his horn. Ash lowers his head and lets the baby tap it. His eyes go soft. He is a nightmare, yes, but he loves soft things and soft things love him, the way sometimes you love what scares you because it looks back and doesn’t blink.

“You scare me,” I say, counting stops.

“I know,” he says. “You scare you, too. That’s why I bring muffins.”

Back at the apartment, I set a timer. I write the email. It is not perfect. It is complete. My heart does not implode; my building does not collapse. I send it. For a second, I wait for the ceiling to drop. It does not.

“There,” Ash says. “You are a person. The universe did not revoke your oxygen privileges.”

“It still could,” I say.

“It could do many things,” he says. “It usually does the ordinary ones.”

We cook dinner. He chops onions with a claw tip sharpened on anxieties. I wash rice until the water runs clear. We argue about garlic.

“More,” he says.

“That’s already more.”

“More is free,” he insists.

“Discretion is also free.”

“Discretion is for letters to your landlord,” he replies. “Garlic is for living.”

At 6:17, I catch my reflection in the window, mid-stir, hair a mess, shoulders hunched like a defense. I think about birthdays I dodged, about calls I never returned, about the version of me who is always better and somehow never shows up.

“That one again?” Ash asks gently. “The phantom cousin of you who does everything right?”

“She makes her bed every morning,” I say.

“She also has no friends because no one can keep up,” he says. “And her plants lie about being fine until they crumble into dust.”

“I am being ridiculous,” I say.

“You are being alive,” he says. “Come here.”

We sit on the couch. He coils around like a weighted serpent, warmth radiating through my sweater. His fur smells like smoke and mint. I press my face into the spot between horn and ear. It is the exact shape of my hand.

“I don’t always fight my demons,” I murmur.

“Sometimes we cuddle,” he finishes. “I know. It was on the barista’s specials board.”

“Do you think I’m weak?”

“I think you’re making a third option where you were taught there were only two,” he says. “Fight or flight. You made an armchair.”

“You’re very warm,” I say.

“Hell is an efficient heating system,” he says smugly.

“Do you ever get tired of me?” I ask.

“Never,” he says. “I get tired for you. That’s different.”

We listen to the radiator click and the city hum like a hive. Somewhere upstairs, a neighbor laughs. In the alley, a bottle rolls and stops. Time loosens its jaw. We breathe.

“Alex,” he says after a while. “The hydrangeas need water.”

“I’ll do it,” I say, not moving.

“We can do it later,” he says, not moving either.

“Are you going to stay?” I ask.

“For the crying? Yes,” he says. “For the dancing in the kitchen that will happen at 9:12 when a song you loved at nineteen surprises you? Yes. For the email tomorrow? Yes. For your first laugh in the morning that is always a little broken? Yes. For when you don’t need me? Especially then.”

I laugh, a rupture and a stitch. “You talk like a poem.”

“I talk like a contract you forgot to sign,” he says. “Let’s add a clause.”

“What clause?”

“No running from your softness,” he says. “Not even because your softness is loud.”

I think about the hydrangeas in their vase, petals like paper moons. I think about garlic and timers and honey I need to buy. I think about my demon, who lays his head on my knee and watches me like a storm watches the sea it can’t help loving.

“Clause accepted,” I say.

“Initial here,” he says, nudging my hand to his fur.

I sign with a scratch between horns. He purrs, which he will deny later.

When the song surprises me at 9:12, I dance in the kitchen. Ash does not join because he is too dignified, but his tail keeps time on the tile. When I cry at 10:04 because memory doesn’t care about schedules, he is a mountain around me. When I sleep, he curls on the rug like a guardian statue with a soft underbelly. In the morning, he will steal the blueberry muffin because love is imperfect.

There are days we argue. There are days I win. There are days I hide under the table and he slides under after me and we map the knots in the wood with our fingers and claws like cartographers.

You can fight a demon. You can also learn their name, make tea, and ask them to hold you while the kettle sings.

- Julia O’Hara 2025

THANK YOU for reading my work. I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or Coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows? I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

YouTube Top Song List.

https://www.YouTube.com/results?search_query=julia+o%27hara+top+songs

Amazon PlayList

https://www.amazon.com//music/player/artists/B0D5JP6QYN/julia-o'hara

Spotify PlayList

https://open.spotify.com/artist/2sVdGmG90X3BJVn457VxWA

You can also purchase my books here:

https://www.lulu.com /spotlight/julie-ohara

I am also a member of Buy Me A Coffee – a funding site where you can “buy me a cup of coffee”

https:www.buymeacoffee.com/JulieOHara