My human is dismantling its own den, and I have decided this is a tantrum.
For days it has been folding the soft things into brown boxes, sealing them shut with a screeching brown tape I loathe on principle. The soft things belong on the floor. On the bed. On me, when I permit it. Instead they go into the boxes, and the boxes go by the door, which is where offerings go before the great abandonment. I know this door. Nothing good has ever come through it that stayed.
The room is emptying. My favorite ledge, the wide sill where the afternoon warmth pools like a good bowl of water, will soon belong to no one. There is a rectangle of faded color on the wall where a flat, useless thing used to hang, and my human stood staring at that rectangle for a long time, doing nothing, touching nothing, not even reaching for me.
Wasteful. I sat in the largest empty box to correct the mood. It laughed, wetly, and made a sound with its glowing rectangle to capture me, as if I might be forgotten and need proof.
I will not be forgotten. I am the constant. The rooms are its concern.
Then it sat on the bare floor where the bed had been, and its shoulders shook, and it made the leaking-face noises it thinks I do not notice. I noticed. I crossed the room, which I do for no one, and I pressed the whole warm weight of myself against its leg and did not move.
Not for it. The floor was cold, and I was the nearest heat.
That is all.