The Rooftop and the Cat That Saved Me

I don’t remember exactly when the darkness started creeping into my days. Maybe it was when my father died, or when the love of my life left me for someone she claimed could “really see” her. Or maybe it was a thousand small disappointments that piled up so high they blocked the sun.

All I know is that by the time I found myself climbing the creaky stairwell to the rooftop that night, the idea of disappearing felt more comforting than frightening. I carried no note, no last words—just a heart so heavy it felt impossible to carry another day.

The city looked almost beautiful from up there. Lights blinking like distant stars, cars crawling along like tiny beetles, unaware of my plan. I stood at the edge, the warm wind brushing my face, and I wondered if I’d be missed or if my absence would be just another sigh swallowed by the universe.

That’s when I heard it: a soft, almost pathetic meow.

I turned around, annoyed at the interruption. Perched on the low concrete wall was a ginger cat. It was small, its fur matted and ears slightly torn. It looked at me with big, shining eyes, as if it had been waiting for me all along.

“Go away,” I muttered, turning my gaze back to the void below.

The cat meowed again, louder this time, padding closer to me. It rubbed against my leg, purring despite my coldness. I tried to push it away, but it persisted, nuzzling my shin and then sitting down, staring straight up at me with unwavering trust.

Something shifted inside me—something I didn’t know was still alive. I sank down to my knees, feeling the rough rooftop beneath me. The cat stepped onto my lap, its little paws pressing lightly into my thigh as it curled up. I felt the fragile warmth of its body, the rise and fall of its breath.

I thought about how this cat had probably been surviving each day on scraps, wandering rooftops and alleys, yet here it was, offering me comfort. It wasn’t afraid of my darkness; it had chosen me, in my lowest moment, to lean on.

I began to cry, my tears landing on its fur. It didn’t move away. Instead, it pressed closer, purring louder. In that moment, I realized that despite everything—my failures, my loneliness—there was still something in me worth loving, even if it was just enough to feed a stray cat tomorrow.

Hours passed as I sat there with it. The sun began to rise, painting the city in soft golds and pinks. I noticed the details I hadn’t cared to see before: the quiet balconies with flowerpots, the pigeons taking flight, the old man across the street watering his plants even at dawn.

I looked at the cat again. “I guess you need breakfast, huh?” I said, my voice hoarse. It looked up at me and meowed, as if saying, Yes, and so do you.

I stood up, shakily, but with a strange determination I hadn’t felt in months. I carried the cat in my arms down the stairwell. With each step, my mind filled with small, practical thoughts—What would I feed it? Would it need a bath? A trip to the vet? These questions weren’t grand or poetic, but they were real, and they were enough to keep me anchored in the moment.

I named the cat Roo. It felt fitting—a reminder of where we met and the leap I didn’t take that night.

In the days that followed, I started to rebuild my life. I got up each morning to feed Roo, clean his litter, and play with him on the balcony. Slowly, I found work again, called old friends, even started writing—something I hadn’t done in years.

Roo wasn’t just a pet. He became a symbol of a promise I made to myself on that rooftop: to keep going, even when the darkness felt endless. To be present, if not for me, then for him. And over time, I realized it was really for both of us.

I still have bad days. Sometimes the shadows return, whispering old lies. But every time they do, Roo jumps onto my chest, purrs into my ear, and reminds me that life, even in its messiest moments, is still worth living.

I went there that night to say goodbye, to surrender to the quiet void I thought would be my end. Instead, a small, persistent life reminded me why mine still mattered. And in saving him—or so I thought—he saved me first.