Whiskers, my cherished cat, passed away in 2005. His body was placed on an armchair that evening in preparation for burial. Later that evening, as I was reading, he leaped onto the edge of my bed and sat there staring at me. His glowing, well-known emerald eyes appeared to say it all. We had a verbal exchange in which he told me to take immediate action rather than waiting for someone to replace him. A cat of the same kind was in desperate need of a home. And suddenly another cat materialized next to him, as though summoned by the very mention.
An anxiety shot through me. I was in a tight spot financially and couldn't afford to get another pedigree cat. The ghostly presence of Whiskers made me feel more at ease. It was obvious what was meant to be unsaid: it would be handled.
After burial my trusty pet the following morning, I set out to find another cat of the same breed. I was surprised to find one practically right away. He matched Whiskers' description exactly, and his photo indicated that he was looking for a place to call home. I couldn't afford the hefty asking price, but I couldn't help but believe in the ethereal promise. I got in touch with the breeder and offered to accept him anyway.
The new cat would not arrive for another week, the breeder told me. With patience, I came to terms with this. The following day, a letter arrived in the mail. It was a check, the winnings from one of the numerous competitions I occasionally participated in. It was exactly the money I needed to buy the new cat.
The cat, who is now called Echo, is asleep at my feet as I write this. He truly needed a place to call home and a companion who would be understanding of his oddities. A cat that his predecessor bought for and sent to me. As Echo gets closer to turning fifteen, his once-bright enthusiasm is gradually fading. When the time comes, will I receive another, I find myself wondering? And who did it for? Whiskers or Echo?
Echo had a lot of quirks. He was often looking into corners as though he could see things I couldn't. Moreover, he hissed at his own reflection in mirrors and had an unexplained dislike of them. Those peculiarities were unnerving at first, but eventually they warmed up.
Even odd was Echo's behavior on one especially stormy night. He paced agitatedly, watching as lightning sped across the sky and his eyes darted to the window. I reached out to comfort him, but he escaped and ran to the recliner where Whiskers had been sleeping. He stopped there and peered fixedly at the vacant seat.
Echo started to purr, a deep, resonant sound that filled the room, and I watched in horrified quiet. He seemed to be speaking with something—or someone—that was invisible. The air became thick with an unexplainable presence. Echo's purr mingling with Whiskers' was almost audible to me.
Echo was cuddled up on the armchair the next morning, looking content. His agitation had disappeared, to be replaced by a peaceful serenity. In the days that followed, I saw a shift in him. His eyes never left mine as he followed me from room to room, seemed more attuned to me. He felt as though Whiskers's spirit had given him some last words of wisdom.
Echo's health started to deteriorate as the years went by. His playful energy subsided and his previously lustrous fur became drab. I gave him the same consideration and attention that I had given Whiskers. Our relationship grew stronger, based on the enigmatic thread that had brought him into my life.
Echo was breathing shallowly as he laid on the bed next to me on a cool autumn evening. I comforted him in a whisper as I softly patted his fur. I felt a tear fall down my cheek as he walked away. I sensed a warmth and familiar presence surrounding me at that very time. Echo and Whiskers back together.
Without Echo, the house felt more empty. It had been filled for so many years with quiet purring; the silence was a sharp contrast. The armchair, which had become somewhat of a sacred place, drew me in. I felt almost tangible their presence as I sat there, a reassuring reminder that they were never really gone.
After a few weeks, I started to worry if the cycle would end. Would you send me another feline? The doubt was a burden for me. One evening, however, the quiet was broken by a gentle meow. When I looked around, I saw a little, unkempt kitten peering up at me from my porch with curious eyes.
I grabbed him and carried him inside without thinking twice. He was obviously a sign; he bore the same breed markings as Echo and Whiskers. There was no denying the connection. I sensed the same warmth as he became comfortable in his new house. I had been sent this new cat, which I named Spirit.
Spirit's peculiarities were soon revealed. He shared Whiskers and Echo's penchant for lounging in the recliner. He also had a tendency to paw the air, as though trying to reach out for something invisible. Feeling thankful for the unbroken relationship that lasted lifetimes, I regarded him in astonishment.
Every day spent with Spirit served as a reminder of our eternal bond. The cycle of life and love persisted, demonstrating the strength of the relationship I had with my kitties. I took comfort in the thought that Whiskers and Echo were keeping an eye on us and guiding us with their invisible presence as Spirit matured. And thus the eternal dance of love and friendship continued.
About the Creator
Abdul Qayyum
I Abdul Qayyum is also a passionate advocate for social justice and human rights. I use his platform to shine a light on marginalized communities and highlight their struggles, aiming to foster empathy and drive positive change.
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By Abdul Qayyumabout a year ago in Fiction
What Nobody Warns You About Growing Up
Nobody warns you that growing up doesn’t happen all at once. There’s no clear moment when childhood ends and adulthood begins. It sneaks up on you quietly, disguised as routine, responsibility, and small decisions that suddenly feel heavy. When we’re young, we imagine growing up as freedom. We think it means staying up late, earning money, making our own choices, and living life on our terms. Adults look powerful from the outside—confident, certain, and in control. What nobody tells you is that most adults are still figuring things out, just like you were, only with higher stakes. One of the first shocks of growing up is realizing that no one is coming to save you. As a child, there is always someone to fix things—parents, teachers, elders. A bad grade can be explained. A mistake can be forgiven easily. But as you grow older, the safety net thins. Mistakes start costing time, money, relationships, and sometimes self-respect. You learn that accountability isn’t just a word; it’s a weight you carry every day. Nobody warns you about how lonely growing up can feel. Even when surrounded by people, there’s a quiet distance that forms. Friends you once spoke to every day slowly drift away. Not because of anger or betrayal, but because life pulls everyone in different directions. Jobs, families, priorities—all rearrange your circle without asking for permission. You stop expecting people to stay forever and start appreciating those who do. Another thing no one talks about is how often you’ll doubt yourself. As a child, you dream without limits. You want to be everything at once—successful, admired, fearless. Growing up introduces comparison. You see others moving faster, earning more, achieving milestones you haven’t reached yet. Social media makes it worse, turning life into a scoreboard you never agreed to play on. You learn that confidence isn’t permanent; it’s something you rebuild again and again. Growing up also teaches you that hard work doesn’t always pay off immediately. You can do everything right and still feel stuck. Effort doesn’t guarantee results, and patience becomes one of the hardest lessons. Nobody warns you how exhausting it is to keep going when motivation fades and only discipline remains. Yet this is where growth actually happens—in the moments when quitting feels easier than continuing. Then there’s the emotional part no one prepares you for. You start seeing your parents as human beings, not just authority figures. You notice their fears, regrets, and limitations. Sometimes you understand them more; sometimes it hurts to realize they didn’t have all the answers either. Growing up often means forgiving people—not because they apologized, but because holding on to resentment is too heavy. You’re also not warned about how your definition of success changes. It stops being about applause and starts becoming about peace. A quiet mind. A stable income. A few people who genuinely care about you. You learn that happiness isn’t loud or dramatic; it’s often found in ordinary moments—coming home tired but safe, laughing at something small, sleeping without anxiety. One of the hardest truths of growing up is learning to let go. Let go of versions of yourself that no longer fit. Let go of people who can’t grow with you. Let go of timelines you once believed were fixed. This letting go feels like loss, even when it’s necessary. Nobody warns you that growth and grief often walk together. Yet, despite all this, growing up gives you something valuable—clarity. You begin to understand your boundaries. You learn when to say no without explaining yourself. You start choosing what matters instead of chasing everything. Strength stops looking like loud confidence and starts looking like quiet resilience. What nobody warns you about growing up is that it will break you in small ways—and rebuild you stronger in others. You’ll lose some innocence but gain wisdom. You’ll trade certainty for understanding. And even on days when you miss the simplicity of who you once were, you’ll realize you’re proud of who you’re becoming. Growing up isn’t about having everything figured out. It’s about learning how to keep going, even when you don’t. And maybe that’s the lesson no one warns you about—adulthood isn’t a destination. It’s a continuous act of becoming.
By Hanif Ullah 6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Excellent piece