“The Bed That Was Mine”
Dear Diary,
Sometimes, when the chaos of this house swirls around me—Reggie bouncing, Arya snoring, Bellatrix plotting—I close my eyes and drift into a memory. A beautiful, quiet memory.
The bed.
It was mine. All mine.
I picture myself stretched across the soft blankets, the sun warming my fur, and behind me? Books. Stacks of them. Enough to read for the rest of my life. Not that I read, but the aesthetic was everything. Peace. Quiet. No paws in my face. No tails in my space. Just me and my master.
She understood me. She knew the value of silence, the importance of a good nap, and the sacred bond of shared solitude. We didn’t need words. Just warmth.
Now? I share everything. The bed. The couch. The attention.
But in my heart, I return to that time.
The bed. The books. The bliss.
With longing and a well-practiced side-eye,
Willow