Black Cat; Gate 

0.01

I bought cat food the day before. I'm unsure why, but a nagging feeling irked me to leave a bowl of it outside.

That morning, the rain started before dawn, tapping the window in a way that made it sound like someone was trying to enter the room.

I lay there for a long time, letting the steady rhythm press into me. It felt like waking up under a weight I had forgotten I was carrying.

I peered through the window near the door. A black cat crossed the street with slow, deliberate steps. It didn’t react to me. It never did. I stepped outside for the 1st time in a while to collect something. The newspaper on the stairs had blurred into a pale wash of ink, unreadable.

There was a party that night. Loneliness has a way of making even mediocre invitations feel like obligations. It wasn’t excitement or dread — more like the dull ache of routine failure.

I spent most of the day watching TV. Friends, How I Met Your Mother, New Girl. Each scene a reminder that connection existed elsewhere, never here. A tear traced my cheek as I imagined the bonds I would never have.

When I woke, I microwaved leftovers I wasn’t hungry for, ate mechanically, then rinsed the dish as if the neatness might fix something in me. I scrolled aimlessly through my phone, reread old messages, and hovered over conversations I never had the courage to start.

The radiator hummed, and the clock ticked past the hour I was meant to leave.

I awoke to the sounds of rain and the light of dawn. No party today. I missed my chance.

Oh well.

0.001

I made cat food the day before, unsure why, but an uneasy feeling urged me to leave some of it outside.

That morning, the rain started before dawn, tapping the window like a polite warning.

The sound irritated me more than usual. I stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling stain that had grown into the shape of something I couldn’t name.

When I left the building, the black cat crossed the street quickly, its wet fur clinging to its thin frame. The newspaper sagged on the steps, too soaked to lift.

I spent the day telling myself I might go to the party. I boiled water for tea and let it cool untouched. Sometimes the emptiness makes even the smallest decisions feel heavy, as if they demand more courage than I can give.

The evening arrived without my consent. I put on my coat, sat down, stood up, and put it on again. The walls felt too close, then too far away.

I reorganized a shelf I had already organized the day before, moved things back and forth until they looked wrong again. I checked the time so often it became a kind of heartbeat.

Eventually, I let the night move on without me.

The neighbour played the same looping jazz melody. It sounded distant, like something happening in another apartment in another life. Conversations around me were loud, too loud to hear my own thoughts. I despised it. I despised that I despised it.

Near midnight, I stepped outside for air. The cat sat on the stoop, calm, unbothered by my presence.

I lingered longer than necessary, tracing shapes on my phone screen just to have something to hold.

The street felt empty in a gentle, forgiving way — as if the world had softened around my absence.

0.0001

I had cat food lying around, unsure why, but a nagging feeling made me leave a bowl of it outside.

That morning, the rain started before dawn, tapping the window with an urgency that made me flinch.

For a moment, I thought someone was knocking. Impossible.

I got ready too quickly. I forgot my umbrella. My jacket hung open in the cold. Outside, a black cat crossed the street, then paused mid-step, looking toward something I couldn’t hear. The newspaper hadn’t smudged yet; the headline was intact but meaningless.

I made it to the party this time, but everything felt slightly wrong. The sound system buzzed faintly. A group whispered in the corner about something trivial, but in a tone that suggested seriousness. A girl brushed past me and apologized even though she hadn’t touched me.

I walked through the hallways like someone wandering through a memory they weren’t present for. I stayed only a short while. My hands fidgeted with the condensation on my cup long after the drink was gone. I pretended to check messages I didn’t have.

I drifted from room to room, searching for a window or a quiet corner, something to anchor myself to. Music thumped through the walls like a pulse that didn’t belong to me. No one noticed when I slipped out.

The fog outside gathered thickly around the streetlamps. I buttoned my jacket up to my throat and hurried home, unsure why I felt relieved to be alone again.

The rhythm of my footsteps on wet pavement soothed me more than any conversation had. It was my only sense of comfort.

0.02

That morning, the window was quiet.

No tapping.

No sound at all.

I woke with a feeling I couldn’t name — not dread, not calm, something in between. I got dressed slowly and stood in the doorway for a moment before stepping outside. There was no movement on the street. No newspaper on the stairs. The air felt unusually still.

I decided, for once, to go to the party on time.

The apartment building hosting it was warmer than expected. People scattered in pockets of conversation, but the noise didn’t overwhelm me the way it usually did. For a moment, I thought maybe I would stay longer than usual. Maybe I will try. Maybe it would be different. Maybe my life can finally change for the better.

It was 9 o'clock, approaching 9:30, when the man approached me near the kitchen doorway. His smile was soft, almost shy. He said my name as though tasting it, not claiming it. His voice was quiet, but too steady — the kind that makes you lean in without realizing it.

We talked. Or rather, he talked, and I listened. He asked gentle questions, all reasonable on the surface. He placed a hand on my elbow to guide me away from someone passing behind me. The contact was light, almost courteous.

But something in the gesture lingered.

The music became louder, the lights dimmed, and the only luminosity seemed to reflect off the moon through the window. It had been a long time since my shadow was in the presence of another one. I felt a smile, maybe even a laugh, as he spoke in what seemed like divine poetry. Or perhaps it was the result of several glasses of wine. He insisted I drink as it made my lips redder.

He suggested we go somewhere quieter. “Just for a minute,” he said, with a small laugh. “You look overwhelmed.”

It wasn’t unkind.

It wasn’t alarming.

It felt like an escape being offered.

I followed him down the hallway.

The music grew muffled.

My gut felt heavy.

The air became tight.

He opened a door to a spare room — coats piled on a bed, a single lamp glowing in the corner.

“Here,” he said softly. “It’s better in here.”

I stepped inside.

He closed the door.

The lock clicked.

And that was the last sound I heard clearly.