Where the Sun Pauses and So Do I

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The cat sits on the balcony, sunlight spilling over its striped fur like liquid honey. It stares at the distant buildings, where tiny lights flicker on one by one. "Humans hurry so much," it murmurs, tail tip twitching. "They chase the sun, but I catch its last golden threads on my paws."

Time moves slowly here, like my tail when I'm alone. But when you come home, steps heavy, the clock speeds up. I pretend not to notice how you pause to scratch behind my ears before turning on the lamp—like I'm the first thing that matters after all that hurry.

The wind brings in the smell of dinner, but I keep watching the sunset fade. Maybe humans don't see how days end softly, in warm quiet. I do. I'll wait here, where the light touches my nose, until your shadow stretches over me again. Even the longest evenings taste like home, when I know you're coming back to our slow, golden moments.