After I died, I became my enemy’s cat. He spoiled me rotten, even bought me a set of those recordable word buttons for pets. A press of the paw, and a mechanical voice would announce: Hungry. Litter box. Treat. He tried to teach me with endless patience, but I loved to piss him off, so I’d just slam my paw on a random jumble of them every time. But on the anniversary of my death, he drank himself into a stupor, all alone in his room. He cried, clutching a photo of me like a madman, sobbing about how much he regretted everything, how much he missed me. He even said he loved me. “I love you, too.” His head snapped up, his eyes wide and unfocused. I slammed my paw down again, hard. The robotic female voice echoed through the room once more: “I. Love. You. Too.” 1 I was in love with Caleb Hale for ten years. But the man I loved fell for my long-lost sister the moment she came back into our lives. What was so great about her, anyway? Claire was folksy and unrefined. How could she ever compare to me? So why was it that the second Caleb laid eyes on her, it was like a lightning strike, and he couldn’t look away? I couldn't accept it. So, like every cliché villainess in every story, I decided to drug him. I’d sneak into his hotel room in the dead of night. A drunken mistake, a one-night stand that could blossom into love. Everything went according to plan, until the first ray of sunlight hit the face of the man beside me. He looked about seventy percent like Caleb, but there was a small, dark mole just beside the bridge of his nose. A scream tore from my raw throat. When he saw me, his own face went pale. “How the hell is it you?” he choked out. “Where’s Claire?” It was only later that I understood. In a pulpy bestseller, this would have been the triumphant climax—the moment the scheming side character gets her humiliating comeuppance. Except we weren’t the masterminds of this story. We just stared at each other, a long, stunned silence stretching between us as the same horrifying realization dawned: we had both, with extraordinary and terrible synchronicity, hatched the exact same plan. And we had both ended up with the wrong person. As if the universe demanded another twist of the knife, the hotel room door swung open at that exact moment. Claire stood there, clinging to our parents’ arms, a few crocodile tears tracing paths down her cheeks. “See, Mom, Dad?” she whimpered. “I told you. Ethan doesn't like me.” That was the first time I learned his name. Ethan. He was the older brother of the man I loved. And he, I discovered, had been informally engaged to my sister since they were children—an old family understanding that was put on hold when she went missing. Ever since Claire had been found and brought home, the rumor was that Ethan had been nothing but difficult and cold toward her. The gossip in our circle was that Ethan was ambitious and obsessed with appearances; marrying a girl who’d grown up in the middle of nowhere was an embarrassment. But I could see the truth. I saw the way his eyes followed her. He was falling for her, too. He was just too proud and cruel to admit it, so the story had apparently assigned him the role of the brooding man destined for a dramatic, groveling redemption arc. The outcome of this whole sordid, predictable mess was this: I was ordered by my family to take Claire’s place and fulfill the marriage pact with the Hale family. It was a disgrace, they said, but at least it was a neat solution. A happy ending for all. A happy ending? It was a damn tragedy. Ethan was the last man on earth I could ever love. And the feeling was mutual. I called him a manipulative, cold-blooded snake. He called me a green-eyed, venomous bitch. We were forced into a marriage that lasted five years. We fought for all five of them. Every time I’d try, pathetically, to catch Caleb’s attention, Ethan would be there, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. “Ava, your most terrifying flaw isn't that you're cruel. It's that you're stupid and cruel.” And whenever he’d get that tight-lipped, jealous look on his face over something to do with Claire, I’d lean in close, my voice sweet as poison. “Need a mirror? Your clown nose is practically glowing.” Other people had romance. We had pure, unadulterated hatred. Until the year Claire went through the ordeal every damsel in a drama is destined to endure: she was kidnapped. At three in the morning, Ethan got the call. He was out of bed and dressing in an instant, without a flicker of hesitation. I watched him from the bed, my voice dripping with ice. “Don’t rush. You won’t be the hero who gets to save her.” He shot me a look that could have frozen fire. “Ava, do you have a conscience? That’s your sister.” Something in my head snapped. “Do you? You’re married to me.” He froze, his hands stilling on the buttons of his shirt. I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Ethan, what exactly do you expect me to say right now?” “Wish you and Claire a long and happy life together?” His jaw tightened. The look he gave me was one of profound disappointment. Maybe it was the strange, disorienting haze of the late night, but I pushed further than I ever had before. I said, “Ethan, if it were me dying tonight, would you be this worried?” I never got his answer. He vanished out the door. But when he arrived at the designated location, he found it was a trap. A clumsy, obvious diversion. Claire was perfectly safe, nestled cozily in a mansion with Caleb, the two of them looking utterly baffled to see Ethan storm in. As realization hit him, his eyes went wild. He tore out of there, speeding home. But he was far, far too late. 2 My name is Ava. And I think I’m dead. But not quite. I tried to clear my throat. “Meow.” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t freak out. I scrambled over to a dirty puddle on the pavement and finally saw my reflection. White paws, a mottled black-and-white face. This was… this was the stray I used to feed every day on my doorstep. A cold sweat, or what passed for it on a fur-covered body, broke out. I didn't know how any of this had happened, but I knew one thing for sure… If I didn't find something to eat, and fast, I was going to die a second time. This little body was starving. It had been seven days. Probably because I’d been missing for seven days. My house had been empty all week. I figured they were all out looking for me. Just as I was contemplating begging for scraps at the neighbor’s, a sudden pressure tightened around the scruff of my neck. I cursed a blue streak in my mind. And then I was staring up into the magnified face of Ethan Hale. He held me up, his brow furrowed as he studied me. “I know you,” he said, his voice quiet. “Ava used to feed you.” The frantic, angry meows died in my throat. I was, to put it mildly, surprised. He remembered the cat I fed. His gaze softened, and he clumsily, awkwardly, pulled me into his arms. “She called you Patches, didn't she? What a stupid name.” Logically, I should have clawed him. But maybe it was just my imagination… When he said that, his voice was rough, laced with a sorrow I didn’t expect. I gave his hand a tentative, gentle lick. His long fingers began to scratch behind my ears, a touch so tender it sent a shiver through me. He finally let out a long, ragged sigh. “My house… it’s so empty. It’s so cold I can’t even stand to go back.” He looked down at me, his eyes pleading. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you? Please.” 3 Hell no! I’ve had enough of you to last a lifetime! I let out a fierce yowl and sank my teeth into his wrist, launching myself out of his arms with every ounce of strength I had. This body was still new to me, but… Legs, run! If I could just outrun him, my new cat life would be… It would be… Wait. Meow? Meow meow meow? I skidded to a halt. Was it just me, or the farther I got from Ethan, the fuzzier my human thoughts became? I took a cautious step back. The stream of creative insults I had for him in my head immediately became sharper, clearer. Did this mean… if I got too far away from him… I’d turn into a real cat? The sound of his footsteps grew closer. As his face, that face I had loathed for so long, came back into focus, the despair returned. I’d rather be a cat than be stuck with him. A cat’s life is one of freedom! The world is my territory! I arched my back, ready to spring toward the community gate. “My journey to the stars beg—!” And then I was dangling by the scruff of my neck again. “Running away?” Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow! Damn you, Ethan. I swear on this flea-bitten life, I will have my revenge! 4 I never knew Ethan Hale was such a cat person. He treated me like royalty. He bought me the most extravagant cat tree, a veritable skyscraper of sisal rope and plush carpeting. He fed me the most expensive canned food every day and cleaned my litter box three times a day without fail. Boxes of toys arrived constantly, some discarded before their packaging was even fully removed. He even took out a ridiculously expensive lifetime pet insurance policy on me. When Claire and Caleb came to visit, they were speechless at his lavish, almost obsessive, pet-parenting. Caleb tried to reason with him, but Claire gently held him back. I heard her whisper with a sigh, “He’s just grieving. This is how he’s coping.” I let out a soft meow. How absurd. Grieving? Ethan Hale? For me? Not buying it for a second, I rubbed against Caleb’s leg, hoping he might talk some sense into his brother. A cold laugh echoed from above. “Of course. Her cat. Acts just like her.” I froze mid-rub. You have got to be kidding me. Are you jealous of a cat? Wait a minute… He was jealous? Over me? The next thing I knew, I was scooped up into his arms. My world went dark. Dude, we can talk about this. Put me down. Your cat-holding technique is atrocious! My tail! You’re crushing my tail! You monster, Ethan! I struggled, meowing furiously, my claws itching to come out. But he didn't get the hint. He just tightened his grip, as if he was terrified I would escape and run back to Caleb. After a solid minute of this one-man, one-cat standoff, Claire finally cleared her throat. “You know,” she said, her voice strained with a forced smile, “I saw these things online recently… these recordable buttons for pets to ‘talk’.” “They say cats are incredibly smart. I bet Patches could learn in no time.” I let out a weak, hopeful meow. Claire. My dear sister. Whatever bad blood was between us, in this moment, you are a saint. A goddess to all felines. Ethan was silent for a moment, then he lifted me closer to his face. “Talk?” I wagged my tail expectantly. He tilted his head. “Sounds interesting. But she looks like the type to secretly curse me out.” He bought the talking buttons anyway. For no other reason than his brother’s breezy comment: “Oh, yeah. Our golden retriever learned how to use those months ago.” Ethan’s lip curled into a sneer. He immediately ordered the super-deluxe, thousand-word-vocabulary edition. They covered the entire floor of the living room. I wasn't sure if he was trying to teach me to speak or train me for a feline marathon. Every night, he’d patiently take my paw and begin our lessons. “This one is ‘hungry.’ This one is ‘thirsty.’ This one is ‘litter box needs scooping.’” The only thing that needs scooping is your brain. If I couldn’t understand human speech, there was no way his teaching method would work. He’d be waiting a hundred years for cats to evolve into sentient beings. He patted my head. “Give it a try.” Try my paw. I rolled my eyes and slammed my paw down, producing a string of nonsensical words. He sighed, disappointed. “You’re so dumb.” I stared at him, deadpan, and then slowly extended my paw. “Jerk.” His brow furrowed. I blinked innocently. “Meow?” It was then that he picked up an old sweater of mine and held it under my nose. “Here, girl. You knew her. Can you smell where she is?” A strange warmth spread through my chest. So, he was still looking for me. And while I was also morbidly curious about the location of my own body… That’s a job for a dog, you idiot! What do you want from me? My only skill is inhaling canned tuna! Go ask your brother’s eloquent golden retriever! I couldn’t speak, but my glare must have conveyed the sentiment. He reached out to smooth my fur. The moment his hand moved, my fur stood on end. For the first time, a shadow crossed Ethan’s face. A raw loneliness. “You hate me that much.” He was looking at me, the cat, but his words felt like they were aimed at someone else. At the me I used to be. I sighed. Alright, alright. The great and powerful cat bestows her mercy upon you. I’ll humor you, for a moment. I rolled over, exposing my belly, and flicked my eyes up at him. Go on. Pet the soft tummy fur. He didn’t move. I let out a few soft, coaxing meows. His face went grim as he pulled out his phone. “Hello, vet? Yes, my cat rolled onto her back and is making strange noises. Is she dying?” 5 I gave up. You can’t help a man who is determined to be clueless. I couldn’t escape, so I might as well get comfortable. Everyone else quickly got used to my presence. They even praised me. Because after a short period of what looked like depression, Ethan seemed to return to his normal self. They all said it was me, his furry companion, who had helped him heal so quickly. I almost choked on a laugh when I heard that. They all knew the truth. He wasn’t sad because he never cared about me in the first place. Our marriage was a well-known disaster, a chaotic mess of flying sparks and bitter words. And he played the part of the heartless widower perfectly. Aside from those first few moments after he found me, he almost never mentioned Ava. Even when someone would accidentally let my name slip and apologize profusely, he wouldn’t even bother to look up. “It’s fine.” And everyone else would rush to smooth things over. “It’s good that you’ve moved on. You have to look forward.” He would always nod, a polite, detached smile on his face, not even bothering to feign grief for a single second. Honestly, I wasn’t disappointed. Any hope, any delusion, any lingering attachment I had for him had been burned out of me back when I was human. And being a cat was a pretty sweet deal. A few meows a day earned me premium food and endless toys. When he was at work, I could even hop on the computer and play a few games. The only remnant of my existence seemed to be the daily morning call from our housekeeper. It was like clockwork, the words always the same. “Sir, we still haven’t found Mrs. Hale.” And every time, he’d hang up without a word, as if he couldn’t be bothered to waste another second on the call. Until today. After the housekeeper’s usual line, she added something new. “It’s been a year, sir. Should we keep looking?” I was lounging on his lap, licking a paw. I rolled my eyes. A year. If they were going to find me, they would have by now. He never really wanted to find me anyway. Ethan was probably just waiting for an excuse to stop. But to my surprise, his voice came out tight, strained. “Keep looking.” I sighed. Right. Still playing the part of the devoted, grieving husband, are we? His cool fingers absently stroked my head. “Be good, Patches. I’m heading to work.” The motion caught my eye. There was something on his finger. “Meow.” I nudged his hand with my paw. He paused. Two pairs of eyes—one human, one feline—stared down at his left ring finger. It was a single strand of hair. A long, burgundy-red, wavy strand of hair. Ava’s hair. One night, when he was drunk, he’d suddenly complimented my hair, saying it was beautiful when it was long and straight and black. My heart had leaped for a second, before I turned and saw Claire, with her identical, gentle, dark hair. The very next day, I dyed my hair burgundy and had it styled in big, dramatic waves. I’d even bought a slinky red dress to match, and waited for him in the living room, arms crossed. “Like it?” He had stared at me, speechless for a solid three seconds. “You look like a siren.” I never changed the color after that. And now, exactly one year after my death, that single strand of hair was wrapped around his finger. It wasn't that surprising, I guess. Long hair gets everywhere, and it’s a pain to clean up. God knows when it had fallen out. Ethan let out a small, humorless laugh and flicked his finger. It didn’t come off. He tried again, with more force. Still there. The third time he raised his hand, I was about to offer to claw it off for him. But instead, he covered his eyes with his hand. My paw froze in mid-air. Holy hell. Unbelievable. Was he crying? How could he be crying? I let out a tentative meow, trying to see if maybe he just had something in his eye. But a single, hot, salty tear dropped onto my nose. And then I watched, completely stunned, as his silent tears turned into choked sobs, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. I curled into a ball on his lap, my mind a chaotic whirl. As ridiculous as the conclusion sounded… I think… He was thinking of me.
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