My human thinks she owns the morning. Cute. She wakes up late, spills coffee, trips on her shoes, then struts out the door like the universe is waiting to clap for her.
This time she left me with crumbs and cold air. No "goodbye," no scratch behind the ears. Just slammed the door and vanished like she was late to meet God.
I hopped up on the windowsill to watch her. Bag crooked on her shoulder, shoes untied, hair pulled back like a messy broom. She walked fast, scrolling her phone, the way humans do when they want to look important. Spoiler: she isn't.
The sunrise was already fading to ordinary daylight. I told her yesterday it was her last. She didn't listen. They never do.
I followed her in pieces—little glimpses between buildings, buses, the corner deli where they overcharge for bread. Cats have patience. We track the story even when humans think no one's watching.
She reached the bus stop. Half a dozen strangers already standing there, all in their own tiny bubbles. A guy in a cheap suit rehearsing a speech under his breath. A woman in workout gear pretending she isn't dying inside. Teenagers with headphones so loud I could taste the bass from here. Every single one of them with numbers hovering, ticking down, invisible except to me.
My human checked her phone again. Frown. Scroll. Thumb twitch. Humans wait by ignoring the moment. I waited by watching it.
The bus was late. The bus is always late. But this time, it wasn't just late. It wasn't coming.
I saw it in the math of the morning, the way the numbers shifted like gears grinding. Something had been rearranged.
My human sighed, looked up the street like she could summon the bus by glaring. One of the teenagers kicked a rock into the gutter. The man in the suit checked his watch three times like it might change its answer if he stared long enough.
I stretched in the windowsill, tail flicking. "Not today," I whispered.
She didn't hear me.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. The strangers grew restless. One of them called someone to complain. My human cursed under her breath, started pacing. She pulled out her phone again, probably typing some dramatic message: "Bus is late, day ruined." Humans are so good at writing tragedies out of inconveniences, never noticing the real tragedies sliding up beside them.
Another bus finally came—but it wasn't hers. Wrong number, wrong route. People climbed on anyway, desperate to move, desperate to believe any forward motion means safety. It doesn't.
She stayed behind. She had a meeting to get to. She needed the right bus. She thought she still had time.
I licked my paw, smoothed it over my ear, and let the sunlight warm me. The scene was already written. All she was doing now was playing her part.
Twenty minutes late, the right bus came barreling down the street. The driver looked half-asleep, like someone had stapled his eyes open. Brakes squealed. Doors clattered. People shoved on.
She hesitated. That little flicker in her chest. Instinct. The last animal sense humans haven't entirely buried under coffee and notifications. She felt it—danger humming like static. She almost listened. Almost.
Then she shook it off, like people always do. Stepped forward. Climbed the stairs.
And just like that, the numbers above her head shifted.
I yawned.
Humans will blame the bus for what happens next. Or the driver. Or the city. They'll file complaints, write angry posts, scream about safety. They won't understand the truth.
The truth is the bus was never going to arrive the way they wanted. It was never meant to.
Because that's the thing about clocks. They don't care about your schedule.
I curled into the curtain, eyes half-shut, purring low in my chest.
The bus had arrived.
But not for her.