I learnt a long time ago that I sign up for grief the moment I bring my pets home, but I still do it anyway because I’m stupid with hope. And because, maybe, suffering for love is the only kind that makes sense.

I made the choice for what people would say: “play god” and end their lives. Twice. Once because a brain broke, once because a body did.

And even if it was the kindest thing, it feels like I cheated the universe. It feels like power no human should have, because I have the power to decide, but not the power to be at peace with whatever the decision is, even if I decided not to do it.

I thought my heart would callous over. I was wrong. I learned that grief isn’t cumulative but singular. Each loss is its own flavour of hell and a fresh slap from the cosmos.

I learnt that my pets are not just pets but witnesses to my habits, my breakdowns, and my invisible days. And now that they’re gone, it’s like parts of my past were erased with them. Like some version of me, only they knew it, had died too.

I learnt that loving them never protected me from losing them. But losing them proves that I did love. And that’s a terrifying, beautiful, ridiculous thing.

But I also learned that what matter most are the mornings when they curled up next to me, the moments they looked at me as if to say, “I’m still here. For now. And that’s enough.”.

So I learned to hold those “for nows” tighter. To embrace the day, because some days, a purring body beside you matters more than whatever else you should be doing.