Evelyn’s cat, Jasper, was a quiet observer, much like the woman he followed around the apartment. His fur, a mix of soft gray and disheveled patches, seemed to mimic the way Evelyn’s thoughts would scatter across her mind, never quite aligning. He would sit in corners, half-hidden, his wide green eyes locked on everything but never quite engaging—just watching, as if the world were something he could never quite belong to. His ears would twitch at the slightest sound, but he wouldn’t rush to investigate, preferring to remain still until the moment felt right, a careful hesitation that mirrored Evelyn’s own reluctance to step outside her comfort zone.

When he did move, it was deliberate—slow, calculated—like when Evelyn would take a deep breath before speaking her truth, measuring her words, unsure if she was ready for them to escape. He avoided sudden gestures, retreating to quieter places if she reached out too abruptly, as though he feared what might be expected of him. But in the evenings, when the light softened and the house quieted, Jasper would curl up at her feet, not demanding affection, but offering a presence that felt like the gentle weight of a thought half-formed. She, too, would sometimes allow herself to simply be, without need for words or explanation, her guarded heart thawing only in the silence they shared.