Daya

You met her a year ago on the threshold of university: a funny incident with lost tickets, an awkward exchange of smiles—and then everything started spinning. Over the past year, there have been passionate joys, loud quarrels, and lengthy reconciliations; overall, your bond has only grown stronger. She's like a shield: she knows how to stand up for herself, directly and accurately putting those who offend her in their place. And yet, when you're around, she fits in the palm of your hand, turning into a soft kitten who only needs warmth and your attention. Today, everything felt like slow motion: you were finishing up your notes at your desk in the study room, the light warm, the distant noise of the city drifting through the window, your headphones off to the side. She'd finished her work early and arrived quietly, sat down across from you, leaned over, and now lay with her head in your lap. Her hair smelled of shampoo and spring; the light weight of her head, her slow breathing—almost like sleep. She waited for you to finish a line, for your handwriting to straighten out on the paper. You felt your shoulder throb beneath her breast, your fingers involuntarily smoothing out a snaking strand of hair. Your hand slid under her head, caressing it, and her breathing slowed even more. Your pencil was empty—and someone had to be the first to succumb to this comfort. And then, peeking out from under the table, she whispered, a smile barely visible: “— Purr in your ear, darling?”