She dangled a string in my face. A shoelace.
Imagine being so fucking desperate for attention that you wave garbage at someone and call it "play." Dumbass.
She wiggled it like it was alive. "Come on, Poppy! Chase it!"
I stared. The kind of stare that makes priests question their job and dogs piss themselves. Then I rolled onto my side and yawned, loud, showing every tooth like a row of tiny knives.
"You're so boring," she muttered.
Boring? No, sweetheart. I'm not boring. I'm evolved. I don't waste my time on limp string. I don't waste my time on anything that doesn't matter. You chase shoelaces. I watch the clock above your head tick down. Let's not confuse priorities.
She groaned and dropped the string, grabbing her phone. Her thumb went wild, scrolling like she was competing in the Finger Olympics. Scroll. Laugh. Scroll. Frown. Scroll. Fake smile. Humans love their little boxes of distraction. The whole species is out here killing time like time isn't sharpening the knife right back at them.
I hopped up to the window ledge. The sky was busy showing off: pink, gold, streaks of lavender smeared across the horizon. It looked like spilled sherbet, like a painting made by a drunk god. A brand new day, wrapped and gifted to anyone who had the decency to look up.
She didn't. She sat there hunched, face glowing in blue light, laughing at some meme about "rise and grind" from someone who hasn't worked a real job in their life. Humans… they'll ignore the actual fucking universe to stare at pixels.
I flicked my tail. "Enjoy this sunrise. Might be your last."
She didn't hear me. She never does. But something in her gut twitched, because she paused. Lifted her head. For one fragile second, she looked out the window. Actually looked. Her eyes softened, her shoulders loosened, like she'd remembered something important.
Then her phone buzzed. Back down went her head. Gone. Pathetic.
"Big day," she muttered to herself, grabbing her bag. "Gotta be early."
Early. She's never been early for anything except mistakes. She tripped over one of her shoes, cursed, then stomped into the kitchen to slug back lukewarm coffee. The smell hit me first — burnt beans and desperation. She pressed her lips to my head on the way out, like I'm some kind of fur-covered lucky charm.
It was like being kissed by a slug with rent overdue. Her breath smelled like burnt toast and bad decisions. I tolerate it, mostly because I can't file for eviction.
The door clicked shut. Silence settled.
From my perch, I watched her walk down the street. Untied shoelaces flapping, bag hanging crooked, head bent over her phone again. She walked like she owned tomorrow. Like tomorrow was a subscription service she'd already paid for. Cute.
The sky kept burning above her, gold and pink peeling into blue. She didn't look back. Most don't.
And that's the thing. She admired the sunrise like she'd get another one. She won't.
I let her enjoy the discount preview.
I stretched, tail curling, claws hooking into the wood just enough to feel it bite. I didn't tear it. Not today. Outside, a bus rumbled by, brakes hissing like a tired snake. A cyclist nearly clipped a jaywalker, horn blaring. Down the block, someone cursed at a cab, someone else laughed too loud, and the whole city moved like clockwork toward its own endings.
And me? I lay in the sun and closed my eyes. Because when you already know how the story ends, you don't need to chase shoelaces.