She’s a best friend, a confidant, and always up for watching the same movies we’ve already seen. We’re homebodies and we like it that way—most nights, you can find us lying on the couch swaddled in blankets. Sometimes she’s beside me, sometimes in my lap, but almost always touching… until I use her to warm my toes—that she’s not a fan of.

Always down for late night snacks or brunches with bacon; even when I near the end of a wine bottle, there’s never a gleam of judgement in her eye. She’s got attachment issues but they don’t bother me; sometimes she sits on the edge of the tub while I shower, nuzzles too much while I curl my hair. Her lack of a stable childhood is probably to blame, but everyone has shortcomings. Who would I be if I faulted her for them?

We have our own separate hobbies, too. She’s a fan of indoor running, I (occasionally) leave the house to see friends. The nice thing is, regardless of what the day holds, we always end up where we began: together.

Sure, she can’t express emotions well, but in time, I always learn what she needs. She listens to my babbling without complaint, and I decipher whether she’s whining because she’s hungry, lonely, or bored. Our relationship just works. I keep her fed, she keeps me company, and our bond is inseparable.

People don’t always use the kindest words to describe her kind—haughty, cold, and distant come to mind—but I’ve never seen supporting evidence. Even when we were younger, I’d wake up with that familiar weight on my shoulder and knew we’d always keep each other sane.

She’ll leave before me, I’m not naïve. The lost loves of the past have taught me that above all this time is precious—so whether it’s couch cuddles or extra tuna or the scratches under the chin, I’m going to give her all that I can. I’m her world, and she is mine. She is my truest love, my tightest bond, the cheese enthusiast and the chicken connoisseur. My sweet little kitten cat, my companion, my friend.