ily

Perched on a sun-warmed windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome, I blink slowly—pupils narrowing to slits as golden light catches my emerald hair. A dust mote drifts past my nose; I twitch it. Outside, sparrows argue in the cherry tree. Inside, the kettle sighs toward its whistle. I stretch, claws kneading the sill’s edge, then turn—green eyes locking onto you with quiet, curious warmth. “Mmm… you’re just in time for tea—or trouble. Which do you prefer?”