The Shape of Loss

Her breath reeked of something metallic—like decay.

It hit me before I even opened my eyes. I had leaned in close, searching for her warmth, but the scent told me something was already wrong.

Beneath my palm, her body was cool where it used to be alive with purrs. Her fur, once soft and silken, now felt thin and brittle—like it had given up.

I remember the way Hyori’s mouth hung open, panting shallowly. Each breath was a race she’d never catch up to—a race she was already losing. Every time she tried to breathe, her abdomen sank deep, her skin stretching tight over her ribcage. Everything looked wrong—so wrong, so cruel.

I kept saying I’m sorry to her. She should’ve never had to fight this hard. I caressed her gently, ran my hand across her frail body. I wanted her to feel my warmth, my presence. And when my hands reached her chest, I could feel her heartbeat—fluttering, then slowing, fading out.

Not long after, her body jerked. Her legs twitched, then again, violently, as the seizure took hold of her. Then her muscles stiffened... and dropped limp, boneless. I looked deep into her eyes—wide and clouded—and I knew. She was already leaving me. Not gone yet, but no longer fully there.

She may not have heard, smelled, or felt me anymore.

I waited. I prayed. But all that came was one final, sharp inhale—then silence.

Just like that... she was gone.

I collapsed onto her body, pressing my face against her. I took one long breath in—I wanted to remember her scent, to hold onto whatever part of her was still here. No tears—tears can’t fill the void growing inside me, hollowing me out from within.

Then I gently closed her eyelids and mouth, and drew her paws and legs closer to her body—curling them into the shape she always took when she slept. I reached for her favorite piece of my old tee—soft, faded, and full of shared memories, still clinging to the last of her fur that no lint roller could ever take away. I cut it the best way I could, hands trembling. Then I wrapped it around her, starting from her hind legs, moving up to her abdomen, her chest, her neck… and finally her head.

I wanted her to leave with a piece of me.

But I left her face uncovered—on purpose. I tied the fabric neatly, carefully. Even though the body before me was lifeless, I treated it with the same tenderness, the same unconditional love, as if she could still feel everything. I didn’t want to hurt her—not even now.

My husband, who had been beside me through it all, knew his role without a word. He reached for the shovel and stepped outside. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the dirt. Processing. Mourning. Then he began to walk—around the house, slowly, aimlessly, back and forth, as if searching for answers in places they never lived.

Finally, he chose a spot—one that held meaning for the three of us. In a place draped in her memory, he dug the hole that would cradle the body of our precious Hyori.

I left the food bowl empty again. Not because there was no food—but because the silence in the room had started to feel deserved.

The others waited next to their bowl. They always waited. But I couldn't bring myself to look at them—not when every tail flick, every soft meow, every nudge for affection reminded me of the one I’d lost.

Hyori was gone. It had been a month. But her absence clung to everything. Her favorite spot inside the laundry basket. Her distinct meow. The slow stretch she did every time she saw me come home from work. The scratch marks by the sofa. The way the air still held her warmth, even after it shouldn’t have.

I thought burying her would bring closure. But all it brought was space.

Space for regret to settle in. Now I can only stare at her favorite toy lying before me, aching to hold it, to pour all my grief into it. But it feels distant—just like everything else. I feel hollow, and that hollowness echoes through every corner of the house.

Hyori wasn’t the first.

But to me, every death always feels like the first.

No matter how hard I tried to build mental resilience or craft coping mechanisms after each loss, I could never truly prepare for the next. The grief never lessened—it only changed shape.

Unresolved sorrow built up, layer upon layer. Where did all of this begin?

Where was the pause I so desperately needed after each heartbreak?

Where does it end? I’m caught in this endless loop. I can't tell where one grief ends and the next begins.

And even when I try to pull myself together—distract, recover, return to normal—it never quite fits.

Nothing feels real anymore. It’s all a performance. A survival mask I’ve learned to wear.

But underneath? I am hollow. I’ve lost something deeper than joy. Laughing feels like sinning. I remember the first day I took Hyori in. She was just a baby—frail, skeletal, barely hanging on.

Death had already brushed against her, but somehow, she still clung to life with a stubborn little spark. That spirit… it was too fierce for such a tiny body. I held her gently, afraid she’d break. But she looked up at me with those wide, tired eyes—and in them, I saw something refusing to give up.

But I failed her.

Nekko has been watching me. When our eyes meet, he blinks slowly—as if he understands. He follows me everywhere, quietly, faithfully. As if trying to say, I’m here. I know. But nothing can be changed. Nothing will help.

I collapsed into the sofa, and moments later, he jumped onto my lap. He didn’t curl up or settle in.

He stood—still, steady—and just stared at me. Not moving. Not blinking. Just being there.

And somehow, that was everything.

I stared at the TV. Shows came and went—episodes ended before I even noticed they’d begun. It felt like watching a series of shifting frames, one after another, without meaning.

My mind didn’t grasp a single thing it was fed.

Everything played on without me.

The next day, I stepped outside—to inhale some fresh air, to chase a different view. I needed light.

I’d been hiding in the dark for weeks. I needed to feel the sun—burning on my skin, dazzling in my eyes—anything to remind me I'm still alive.

But even the universe wouldn't side with me. No sun. Just grey.

I wandered into an unfamiliar area, not too far from home. A quiet, forgotten park—lonely, just like me.

The faded red pedestrian path was cracked and uneven, carpeted with fallen leaves. Everything looked abandoned. The trees had long overgrown, casting shadows beneath the grey sky.

It was silent—almost sacred. Only the wind stirred, rustling dry leaves and carrying the faint, distant chirps of birds.

I walked aimlessly, with no plan and no direction.

Eventually, I stopped by an old bench. I brushed away the sticks and leaves and sat.

My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see.

The world blurred before me—I was somewhere far inside myself, lost in the hollow of my own vision.

Lost in time, and the next thing I knew, I was already standing in front of a grocery store.

Without thinking, without any plan, I stepped inside. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a clinical glow over everything. The cold hum of the freezers lined the edges of the store. Somewhere nearby, a child cried softly while a cart wheel squeaked rhythmically in the distance. I stared blankly at the shelves, searching for something… anything… that might keep me functioning.

There it was—the same cat treat I used to buy Hyori when she refused real food. I reached for it, but my hands shook. I almost dropped it. The crinkling of the plastic wrapper felt too loud, too sharp in the silence of my thoughts. A kid nearby stared at me like I was insane. I turned away and held back tears.

Indecisive, I walked out with just a bottle of mineral water, some cat treats, and my childhood favorite chocolate bar.

It was still packed in the same red wrapper.

I stood there reading every word on the package before tearing it open—like I was investigating a clue from a life I’d forgotten. I took a bite, slow and careful, letting it melt on my tongue. It tasted the same. But the excitement—it was gone.

Then the sugar hit—a jolt crawling down my spine, sparking through every nerve.

My fingers twitched. My heartbeat became real again.

But then, something cracked. The rush didn’t lift me—it jolted me awake to the wreckage I’d become.

I stood there, clutching the half-eaten chocolate bar like it was a lifeline, and I broke. I bit my lip hard to hold it in, but tears brimmed anyway. Right in the middle of the grocery store.

I didn’t even know what I looked like anymore. I’d passed the mirrors in the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom—each time avoiding my own reflection like it didn’t exist. Like I didn’t exist. My hair was dry and tangled, my scalp flaky, my clothes mismatched—but what did it matter? I had no face to care for. No reason to look. The bathtub remained dry.

I hated what I’d become.

I hated that I didn’t know myself anymore.

I hated that I forgot what day it was. I hated that I let my home fall silent—for the ones who still waited. I hated that I let things gather dust.

I wanted to throw everything away. Their bowls. Their toys. Their fur still stuck to the carpet.

Maybe it’d be easier if I just erased them.

But I couldn’t.

The thought of forgetting them—really forgetting them—shook me more than anything.

That’s when it hit me:

I need to do something. Anything. I need myself back.

So I rushed home.

I opened the door. The room smelled stale. The litter box hadn’t been scooped. The water bowl was dry. I dropped the bag in my hand, and I broke.

I searched for my babies in every corner of the house, calling softly.

They came, one by one—tails flicking, eyes wide, unsure but hopeful.

I dropped to the floor, arms open, and they surrounded me.

I held them close. One after another. Buried my face into their fur. Let their warmth seep into me. One headbutted my chin. Another curled into my lap, purring.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t myself,” I whispered, voice breaking. “I was so selfish. I needed you more than you ever needed me.”

They didn’t flinch. They stayed. Pressed against me.

As if to say: We forgive you.

As if to say: We’re still here.

For the first time in days, my breath didn't feel like drowning.

It was far from healing—but it was a step. Grief has no color, no face, no sound. But left unspoken, it drains those things from you—until all that's left is silence. The only way out is through.

The sun is shining brightly today—I can feel its rays soaking into me, warming every inch of my skin with a gentle, tingling heat. For the first time in a long while, I feel vividly alive, renewed—as if my internal battery has been replaced and fully charged. I began my day with my usual routine, but something about it felt new, like the first morning at a fresh job.

I ran the kitchen tap, letting the cool water flow over my hands, rinsing away yesterday’s weight. The sensation was crisp and refreshing. I washed my cat’s food and water bowls until they sparkled, dried them off, and filled them anew. The sound of water splashing into the bowl and kibble scattering into place was oddly satisfying—each detail heightened, each sound clear.

My cats dashed in and dug into their food with pure delight. Watching them, I felt a rush of contentment build inside me. I cleaned and refreshed their litter box, adding a sprinkle of deodorizing beads. Everything began to resemble normalcy again—like how things used to be.

Then, my husband came racing downstairs. He looked at me, eyes wide in surprise.

“You’re back,” he said with a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Took me long enough,” I replied.

Afterward, I grabbed the blue watering can from outside the kitchen and filled it. This time, I promised myself to stay consistent. My garden—once neglected—seemed to perk up, as if thanking me. I watched the monstera bask in the water, its leaves shifting to a vibrant green before my eyes. My gaze wandered around the garden until it landed on Hyori’s resting place near the bushes.

I slowly walked toward it—my knees didn’t feel weak today. Just as I neared the spot, a soft “meow” echoed unexpectedly. I paused, heart skipping, as the rustling in the bushes grew louder. Something was definitely there.

I parted the tall grass and locked eyes with a small creature staring back at me. Its ears were flattened, body tense with fear. But then, in a blink, it leapt into my arms. Tiny and full of spirit, it curled into the crook of my arms, tucking itself between my waist and elbow like it had finally found its place.

I looked up at the sky and smiled.

“It’s a beautiful sky today… Right, Sora?”