Page 10 of Whispered Promises

“I’m not going to force her, but what’s not to like about us? Don’t worry about it so much. My natural charm will win her over, and she’ll be jumping at the chance to come over.” Max winks.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Noah mutters, shaking his head as he passes around the mugs filled with tea.

I grunt in thanks as he hands me mine, and I tune out their conversation as I let my mind drift to my gym girl.

Will she forget about me once she sees how charismatic the others are?

Whilst my size doesn’t let me easily fade into the background, I struggle to converse with others; silence is easier.

Max may be the loudest of the four of us, but Bry and Noah still manage to enthral women, and how could they not?

Bry is the nurturing one, always looking out for and taking care of others in ways they didn’t realise they needed. Noah has that natural confidence; he knows who he is, and he gives you the assurance that makes you feel like you can achieve anything.

Honestly, I’m not sure what I can offer anyone.

I know they love me, but I’ve always needed them more than they need me. They keep me out of the darkness that lurks in the recesses of my mind.

But Rosy? She obliterates it, and whilst I crave that feeling, it also petrifies the fuck out of me.

FIVE

ROSY

Exhaustion seeps through my bones as I step up to my door after a long day. I manage to get it open whilst juggling the bag hanging off my shoulder and the cat carrier cradled in my arms. Side-stepping into the flat, I edge down the hallway and poke my head into the living room to check if Steph’s home. I heave out a sigh of relief. It’s not that she’d say no to me bringing home a kitten, but she would berate me about it, and I just don’t have the energy for that tonight.

“Home sweet home, Moshi. It’s not the biggest space for you, but it’s warm and safe, and you won’t have to fight to survive outside, huh, buddy?”

His weak hiss has a pang of sadness clutching at me. The little feral tabby kitten isn’t too impressed with his new temporary lodgings, but there was no way I could leave him to fend for himself. Part of his ear is missing, and he is starved and cold. He was dropped off at the farm this afternoon by a family who found him on the side of a busy road, no littermates or mother with him.

I’d stopped off at the vet on my way home, and they confirmed he was not micro-chipped and around sixteen weeks old. Thankfully, his ear wasn’t infected and was mostly healed, but he was a touch malnourished and lethargic. The farm isn’t really equipped to take in cases like this. We did reach out to a local cat rescue; however, they were full. With him being so young and worryingly underweight, I decided to bring him home as a foster to try to earn his trust and feed him back up. Kittens are usually fairly easy to re-home, so I’m hoping if we can work on his fear of humans, he will bounce back, then the local rescue can find him a forever home when he’s ready.

Placing the carrier on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, I reach under the bed and pull out a large storage box. In it are a few bits that would work for him, including a fluffy bed, bowls, a litter tray, toys, and some disassembled scratching posts.

I fix the mesh doorway cover around the doorframe so when it’s open, Moshi can look out but not escape and get lost in the rest of the flat until he’s ready to explore. It comes with a zip, so I can open it and slip in and out easily.

I put out some kitten supplies and empty a tin of cat food into the bowl, adding a touch of bone broth powder and some water from my bottle, then place it in front of the carrier. Slowly opening the carrier door, I shuffle backwards to give the spicy little fighter some space.

“Come on, cutie. I know you must be hungry. Smell that? It’s all for you, Moshi.”

I hold still, breathing as evenly as I can, and watch as he takes small, tentative steps to the edge of the carrier. His little nose twitches at the scent of food just beyond his reach.

“You’re such a brave boy. Just a little bit farther, then you can eat it all. There’s no pressure to explore yet, handsome.”

Another little hiss comes out of him. Even though his ears are drooped anxiously, his gaze is on the food he so desperately wants, and my heart breaks for him being so young but so on edge at the perceived threat of danger. Little by little, he takes two tiny steps forward, his back end still safely in the carrier that he considers his safe space. He ducks his head into the bowl of food, taking huge bites. After each one, he glances around the room to stay aware of his surroundings.

“Such a good boy, Moshi. You’re just so very brave, you little cutie,” I gently coo at him, my heart full because he’s safe from the outside world and getting the food he needs.

Staying still so he doesn’t get spooked, I wait for him to vacuum up his food, watching as he retreats into the carrier with another little hiss. Then I set up the litter tray near the carrier, place a bowl of water on the other side, and assemble the scratching posts before dotting them around the room. My presence and movements elicit the odd growl.

“I’ll leave you to have some time to decompress, and I’ll come back in a bit.” Grabbing my pyjamas, laptop, and bag, I head out into the living area and close my door behind me.

Dumping the bits I don’t need on the sofa, I head into the bathroom for a desperately needed hot shower. Whilst I love my days at the rescue, and they are my favourite parts of the week, it also always feels like a never-ending drain on my mental, physical, and emotional batteries. There are always more animals needing our help, endless things that need doing, and just not enough hours in the day.

Throwing on my strawberry-shaped shower hat, I step under the flowing water and tilt my head, offering my face up to the warm stream, letting it wash away the grime and tears. It’s their suffering that usually hits me the hardest. Knowing I can’t stop it no matter how hard I try tends to result in coming home and ugly-crying until I’m empty.

Then I get up and do it all over again.

A therapist I saw for a while suggested I experience empathy more than most, resulting in feeling things too deeply and getting easily overwhelmed. I’m not sure having that knowledge actually helps. Because how do I stop feeling? How do others not care like this?