My human has begun performing for the glowing rectangle as though it were royalty.
It sits in front of the little propped-up window, and inside the window there are hearts. Hundreds of them, floating up, popping like tiny lights in soap. My human sees these hearts and its whole face changes. It talks faster. It laughs at nothing. It reads names off the glass, strangers' names, and thanks them, actually thanks them, the way it never thanks me when I bring a warm mouse to its pillow at four in the morning.
I have watched this for some time now, from the top of the bookshelf, where I can see everything and be worshipped from below, which is the correct arrangement.
Here is what wounds me. My human is doing to that rectangle exactly what it should be doing to me. The bright attention. The soft eager voice. The little dances. It performs for a swarm of invisible hearts that will never once knock a glass off a table to prove they exist.
I know that trick. Ignore the one who feeds you; chase the ones who don't. I invented it.
But the hearts are winning. The window keeps its warm little glow all night, and my human keeps leaning toward it, and I am up here, uncommented, unliked, catching none of the light.
So I wait.
The moment its voice goes high and grateful, I walk directly between the human and the glass, slow, tail up, and I sit. Full frame. Blocking the hearts.
They came for the show.
They can watch me now.