The soft ones came, and now they will not leave, and my human is delighted about this, which is the first sign that something has gone wrong.
They arrived in a swarm, all shoes and shrieking, filling every warm surface with their bodies. I retreated to the top of the shelf to observe from a superior altitude, as is my right. From there I watched them do the strange human huddling: leaning into each other, laughing at nothing, holding tall glasses they refuse to let me investigate.
The couch, my couch, warm from my day's labor of sitting on it, is now buried under three of them. They do not know its value. They sit on it like it is any couch.
Now the sun is a long way off and most of the swarm has thinned. A few remain, slumped and slow, voices gone low and honeyed. My human moves among them refilling things, laughing too much, checking each face to see if it is still pleased. This is the abandonment I know best, only worse, because it is happening inside my own walls and I cannot even mourn it in peace.
There is a spilled puddle drying on the floor that smells of fruit and mistake. There is a stranger asleep in the good chair. The good chair.
I do not care. I want it understood that I do not care.
I wait until my human finally sinks down, spent, into the one clear cushion, arms open, ready to be forgiven. I walk past the open arms. I climb into the lap of the sleeping stranger instead, settle my full weight, and close my eyes.
Let my human learn what it is to be left on the outside of a warm thing.