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There was a few scenarios befitting of a teenage girl's mind that I had envisioned would happen when we woke up the next day.

What I most expected was that we would be wrapped up in each other's arms, snuggled in tight and cozy. Maybe I'd have to wrestle my way out of one of his python-esque hugs while he begged for five more minutes. Maybe we'd wake up feeling playful and I teased him while he tickled me in vengeance. Or maybe I'd be the first to open my eyes and I'd kiss his face until he did too.

None of these happened.

What happened instead, was my being rudely awakened by a punch to the face and then promptly being kicked out of bed.

Apparently Namjoon is also clumsy as hell when he's sleeping.

Who'd have thunk it. Not me. But now I have a busted lip to prove it.

For the next few seconds I lay there stunned. The tip of right elbow from where I landed on it and my lip both throbbed in pain in what I suspected was going to be an all day reminder of how my day started off. Fight me in the pit, Namjoon.

How did I even end up on this side of the bed? Last I remember he had placed himself between me and the door and had been adamant about staying in that position until I fell asleep. 'I'm going to protect you' he said. Yet here I am on the floor. This bitch.

Feeling groggy and angry as hell, I stumble to my feet and round on the still peacefully sleeping Namjoon, procuring ideas in my mind of all the worst ways I can wake him up and exact my revenge.

I'm trying to decide which would be worse—kicking him in the face or dive bombing him from the dresser—when my phone starts ringing and ruins my evil plans.

The sound causes my boyfriend to achieve consciousness and he gives me a sweet smile, to which I respond by flipping him off before accepting the call.

That was a mistake.

I wish I never answered the phone.

I've been in this make believe bubble for the past week and a half. Telling myself that everything was going to be ok. Telling people that I was fine. Telling myself that it was just a passing phase, lying to myself, over and over again that BooBoo was not about to leave me.

He's dying. And I feel like dying too.

The veterinarian. I think she's giving me false hope. In one sentence she'll tell me that his white blood cell count is through the roof—meaning his body is trying to fight off something. That with his other symptoms, it's most likely cancer. But then in the next sentence she'll say that she can't be sure without more testing and that we should try antibiotics first.

Is it false hope, or is she so used to having to guide people into the inevitable? Is this just her way of easing me into his death, rather than straight up telling me that it's his time? Or is there still that slim string of hope I can grab hold of?

I'm confused. The words are there but I can't commit my brain to making sense of them. It's with a clouded mind and no clear conviction that I agree to antibiotics. There's no harm in trying, right? Then again...she definitely said the word cancer. That's a word that is both terrifying and signifies an upcoming change. The word she attached, 'antibiotics' doesn't match up. If words were weights then 'cancer' drags a boat to the bottom of the ocean, while 'antibiotics' simply floats away with the current.

It doesn't make sense.

BooBoo isn't that sick. I saw him yesterday, and I need to see him now.

I get dressed, but I don't remember doing so. I must've given some excuse to Namjoon but I can't recall that, either. The trip to the vet's office is a blur and when I get there I'm bombarded with more scary and upsetting words and phrases from her like, 'nuclear scanning', 'too old', 'ultrasound', and 'chemo'.

Then when I leave she tells me to forgo the payment today, and for some reason that scares me, too. Do I look that pathetic? Why does she feel so bad if antibiotics have a chance of helping anything?

What I know for certain is that I need to see him. The words don't jibe with the fact that he's here. When he's in front of my eyes I can confirm that he's alive, he's solid, his existence isn't make believe, he's here and he's with me.

When I'm back home and step into the foyer, I have to wait for a second before I hear his bell, that telltale sign that he's on his way to greet me. Just like he has for as long as I can remember. It takes a lot longer than usual, but eventually there he is.

Walking slowly. Very slowly.

Yesterday and everyday before, he was BooBoo, my favorite cat, and he was fine. Today when I see him coming towards me, those words that the vet spoke come back and poke me right in the eyes and suddenly, it's like the veil I was refusing to look through had been removed.

He looks sick. He looks old, frail, skinny, and tired. So tired.

And those hateful fucking words linger and now they make sense. And I hate them. I hate they're existence, I hate the veterinarian for saying them, I hate that I can't do anything.

If just the word 'cancer' can sink a boat, then I haven't a chance of fighting that. Even if I could, BooBoo is so old that his body can't handle things like chemo or surgery. I can't help him. And I've never felt so helpless.

The next four days are some of the hardest I've been through emotionally, but I wouldn't take them back for anything. BooBoo wasn't getting better, and I came to accept that, as much as it tore my heart to shreds to admit it. In return, I took the week off from everything. School, Namjoon, all of my friends, and spent all of that time solely with him. We haven't had that kind of time together since I was a toddler and I relished every second of it.

We did everything I could think of that I knew he enjoyed, and anything I thought that he might like. Allowing him to gorge himself on all the fresh fish and chicken he wanted, which was specially hand fed by me. At least he still had an appetite, even if it was only due to the stimulants the vet had prescribed.

I pulled out a bag of catnip and watched as he rolled around in it, seemingly drowning in pleasure. I carried him back and forth to the litter box and anywhere else he wanted to go. We cuddled for hours on end. We played with the laser light just on the space of my bed (since he could only walk so far) and I allowed him to catch it every time. He was extremely pleased with himself.

He'd always wanted to go outside. We sat in the grass as he studied his surroundings and though he was tired, he clearly enjoyed this adventure.

Hours were spent meticulously grooming his fur and memorizing the way every groove and dip on his body felt beneath my fingers. The roundness of his ears, his rough, calloused paws, the tip of his tail, the shape of his shoulder blades, the bumps of his spine. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the slightly brittle feeling of his fur on my fingertips, wanting to commit how he felt to my memory. No matter what happens, I can't forget this.

I even went so far as to change form and we sat in the sun together as he watched in curious fascination.

When it came to the point where he didn't want to eat anymore, even with the stimulants, I knew it was time to say goodbye. Dad took the day off and made the appointment for me, reminding me that this was real. I couldn't run from it or pretend it wasn't happening anymore. Now was the time to accept and face it head on.

It's the right thing to do for him. Logically, I know it. But inside I feel guilty. It's the sickness killing my cat. It's not me. Having to make this decision...depression and anguish are technically the same thing, right? But to me, right now they're separate entities, one on each side of my heart and they're crushing it to a fine pulp.

I wake up the last morning with one stray thought that hits me the second I open my eyes and lingers there, antagonizing me.

Today my baby is leaving me.

The saddest part about this, and the one point that sticks with me the most is...

I can still see him, in pictures.

Maybe some of my other animals will start to greet me at the door.

I won't be alone.

His memory will live with me forever.

...but I'll never call his name again.

I feel as if I'm going to lose so much more than 'just a cat'.

No one will ever be my BooBoo again. The love we share is unlike any other I've ever had. I have my dad, my familial love. I have my Eun-ji and In-guk, my friendship love. I have my Namjoon, my romantic love.

No one will ever love me like BooBoo loves me. Our bond is special, and one that can't be replaced. Not by family, not by boyfriends, and not even by my other cats. He was my everything when I had nothing, my companion when I was lonely, the one shelter I knew I could always come home to.

He's the last bit of my mom I have left.

I now have a new rock I can cling too, and that's Namjoon. I know I can rely on him, like I've relied on BooBoo when I needed it. He can't replace him, but he's the next best thing.

The time for denial is over. This is real. I can't wait this out and hold on to a nonexistent thread of hope. There's no fixing this. Even if...somehow there was a way, a miracle cure, he'd have to leave me eventually.

Knowing that, and the fact that he has never once failed me, spurs me into moving. I have to get up.

The aftereffects of death is only painful for the people left behind. Whether there's an afterlife or not, BooBoo isn't going to be in pain anymore. I refuse to let my baby hurt a second longer.

...They say diamonds are a girl's best friend, but all I want is my cat.

—

Edited 6/1/22