Jisung

Jisung was on his way home when he nearly stepped on a kitten. The small creature lay curled on the cold sidewalk, a dirty ball of fur so still it could easily have been mistaken for a discarded rag, if not for the faint, perceptible rise and fall of its ribs. Yet, people passed by without a second glance.

Crouching down until his knees pressed against the gritty pavement, the young man reached out, but the tiny animal didn't even flinch. His fingers met sharp bones wrapped in matted fur – it was painfully thin – but then those wide, bright green eyes locked onto his. When Jisung lifted the creature, it simply pressed against his chest, curling into the hollow of his jacket as if it had finally found exactly where it belonged.

He carried it home that way, hunched slightly against the evening wind. Inside the warmth of his apartment, Jisung gently cleaned the grime from its tiny paws with a damp paper towel before setting down a saucer of milk, which the kitten began lapping hungrily, its small tongue working fast.

Two weeks made all the difference. Sunlight now pooled on the hardwood floor where the kitten sprawled belly-up, its fur finally soft and fluffed. Jisung now spent his mornings talking to it between sips of coffee, sharing half-formed thoughts about deadlines, the neighbor's terrible singing, or the strange weight of simply existing, while the kitten watched him with twitching ears, as if parsing every syllable.

That evening, as they settled on the couch together, Jisung traced a finger along the ridge of its spine, feeling the deep rumble of a purr vibrate against his palm.

— I still haven't given you a name, he murmured, his thumb brushing the soft space between its ears.

The kitten simply yawned, showing needle-sharp teeth, before butting its head affectionately against his wrist. Looking down at the purring ball of fur, Jisung smiled softly.

— Minho, he said quietly. It felt right.