I have a little orange cat named Simba.
It’s funny — he just eats, sleeps, and brings me his toy once in a while when he wants to play.
He walks outside with his little constellation harness, like he knows he’s a small explorer mapping his own stars.
He doesn’t talk.
I don’t talk meow.
But when he lays on my lap, or licks my hand, or looks at the door before I even open it to walk him outside — that’s a language.
It’s a quiet understanding.
When he curls up on me, it calms something deep in my body.
He connects with my nervous system in a way no person really can.
It’s not the words that matter. It’s the feeling underneath them — the one that says, without saying, I trust you.
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