Field Notes: On Invisibility, Imagination, and the Perfect Timing of a Bad Day

  Eli fell out of bed with a soft thud and a groan.

  The spot where the cat had curled up the night before was empty—no paw prints, no fur, not even a warm patch left behind. It was like the cat had never been there at all.

  Of course, it had. It just got what it wanted—a soft bed for the night—and moved on. That made sense. Strays didn't usually stick around.

  At breakfast, Eli mentioned it casually. “There was a cat in my room last night.”

  His mom blinked, intrigued. “Already? That’s fast.”

  His dad grunted over his coffee. “Hope it didn’t scratch anything.”

  “Maybe it lives around here,” his mom added. “I’ll check the community page, see if anyone’s missing one.”

  Eli shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t spent the entire night curled on the edge of his own bed, letting it sleep undisturbed.

  The new school looked the same as all the others. The walls were covered in posters for clubs he wouldn’t join and field trips he wouldn’t be there for.

  He almost said hi to a kid at his locker—almost. The word got as far as his throat before freezing. The kid turned and walked away before Eli could find the nerve.

  By lunchtime, he’d claimed an empty bench by the back fence and opened his sketchpad. Drawing helped. It made the world make sense again.

  He sketched the scene from last night: the cat, all in ninja gear, descending on cables through a vent. A full Mission Impossible-style heist, complete with floor lasers, Eli in chibi form at the doorway holding a toothbrush, mid-gasp. The cat had a glowing jewel labeled My Bed.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He smiled. Just a little.

  And then the bell rang.

  He was late.

  When he walked into class, everyone else was already seated. The teacher had just started, and for one long beat, all eyes were on him.

  He sat down quickly, burning from the inside out.

  After school, the walk home was quiet. The sky hung low and gray, and the sidewalks were slick with the kind of drizzle that didn’t quite count as rain but still soaked through sleeves.

  The house was quiet when he got in. His parents were still out, probably shopping or organizing something.

  Eli dropped his backpack by the door and went straight to his room.

  The cat was there.

  Curled up in the exact same spot. Like it had never left.

  This time, he didn’t bother trying to move it. He didn’t even say hello. He sat on the floor, back against the bed, and stared down at his sketchpad.

  He didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  But he did.

  “I just want a real friend.”

  The wind stirred. Not much—but enough to lift the corner of his blanket, to whisper through the draft in the window like something exhaling.

  The cat’s ears twitched.

  She stretched, arched her back, and leapt down with a grace that felt heavier than it should have been—like something was shifting, not just in the air, but in her.

  Eli blinked.

  The corners of the room felt deeper. Not darker—just…more.

  The cat turned to face him. Her tail swept the floor once, slow and certain. Her eyes, bright and golden, fixed on him in a way that felt too human to be comfortable.

  And then, in a voice rich with warmth and grief and something ancient beneath it, she said:

  “Oh, baby,” she murmured, soft as a sigh,

  “you should’ve said so sooner.”