hello! this is very different from my usual posts, but i don't know what else to do. we have this sweet cat in our street, he's a little more than a year old and we've known & fed him ever since he was a baby. from what we've seen, he seems to have owners — his nails are cut occasionally, and he's been neutered. BUT, his owners not once did they come looking for him, even when there was a poster put up on the lamp posts by a family who found him and took him in for a few days. the poster asked the owners to call, but they didn't. so he ended up wandering the streets again. this family took him to a vet to see if he has a chip, which he doesn't.
my boyfriend and i noticed this lump on his head around two weeks ago, but it wasn't very visible unless you really looked at him, so we thought he must've gotten into another fight. today, my boyfriend came back telling me that he's looking worse, and he can't open his right eye from how big the lump has gotten. he doesn't seem to be in any pain, he's purring and making biscuits, and he's rubbing his head against my leg, even the swollen side.
we've called three vet offices, and only one picked up. they told us that if he has owners, we can't take him in ourselves, they won't accept him. they also said that if he doesn't get checked out soon, he might pass away, and he might need surgery which would cost a lot.
we will try to call again tomorrow, specifically places who specialize in stray animals, but i'm unsure what to do and i'm very worried for this cat. i know we shouldn't be taking in cats who have owners, but i feel so guilty letting him wander around until it got to this point. i'm just looking for advice, anything, if there's anything we can do to help him get better, or potentially save his life.
i'm currently working on something similar to in my head with intense parasocial themes. it's super personal and a whole lot of word vomit, concentrated from my own thoughts and y'all...i don't want to get bullied i'm not big and strong 😭 it's about hayden and idk i'd feel a little guilty for it, but I also want to share it on the off chance someone can relate
long story short, will anyone read it if I post it within the next week?
all y'all are voting yes but wait till you read it, i'm gonna get a new mental health diagnosis💪🏼💪🏼 also I accidentally set it for a week instead of a day so ignore that. this shit ends tomorrow at 11:59pm
I'm not religious, but I'm praying this year and every year returns to him the light he is on the earth. even in an apocalypse, with no sun or moon, his smile could radiate, lighting up the path for us all. flowers grow in the places of his footsteps, leaving a garden to grow behind him.
The sun barely kissed the edge of the horizon when you woke.
The house was quiet—still heavy with sleep and the scent of clean linen, coffee from yesterday, and Hayden’s cologne lingering on his pillow.
Your heart did that soft little flutter thing as you rolled over and looked at him—hair messy, lashes resting on his cheeks, lips slightly parted. There was a tiny furrow in his brow, like even in sleep, he was still holding onto the world a little too tightly.
You reached out and gently smoothed it with your fingertip.
“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered.
Hayden stirred slightly, eyes still closed, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips.
“Mmm. That your present?”
You giggled. “Maybe. Depends on how fast you get up.”
His arm blindly reached out for you, pulling you into his chest like muscle memory. “Not yet. Stay right here a little longer.”
You sighed, resting your head on his chest and letting your fingers trace lazy circles over his bare stomach. “I have surprises for you.”
He hummed, voice thick with sleep. “You’re surprise enough.”
“Cheesy,” you grinned.
“Still true,” he murmured.
——————————-
He finally got up an hour later—but only after you bribed him with the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls and maple-glazed bacon. You wore one of his old button-downs, no pants, and just fuzzy socks that mismatched because it was his day, not yours. And you wanted to spoil him.
He sat at the kitchen island in a t-shirt and flannel pants, hair tousled, eyes shining as you plated everything with a little candle stuck in the center roll.
You lit it, sliding the plate in front of him with a soft smile.
“Make a wish, birthday boy.”
Hayden looked up at you, eyes warm, and without hesitation, said, “Already came true.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushed. “You’re gonna make me cry and it’s not even 9 a.m.”
He blew out the candle, took your hand, and kissed it like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.
———————-
After breakfast, you brought out The Basket.
Hayden gave you a confused look. “What’s that?”
“Your birthday experience,” you grinned. “Each thing in here is one part of the day. You can pull one out every few hours. I made a schedule.”
“You made a schedule?” he asked, already smiling.
“Yes,” you said proudly. “Color-coded and everything. And laminated.”
He stared at you. “You laminated my birthday schedule.”
“Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”
He kissed you.
You blushed all over again.
————————
The first card said: “Open Me Outside.”
You dragged him to the back porch where a picnic blanket was spread with a thermos of hot coffee, his favorite vintage film magazine, and a little speaker playing his favorite jazz record.
He stared, stunned. “You did this?”
You nodded. “I wanted your morning to feel slow. Simple. Like you.”
He blinked. “Like me?”
“Like the best parts of you,” you clarified, settling beside him. “You’re steady. Kind. Soft around the edges. I love that.”
His eyes welled up slightly. “You’re gonna make me cry on my birthday.”
“That’s the goal.”
You both sat in the golden early light, his hand in yours, birds chirping around you like it was all choreographed. Like the world knew it was his day, too.
————————
By midafternoon, the next card led to a living room fort with twinkle lights, movie marathons, and a “Hayden’s Favorites Only” snack bar (complete with gummy worms, dill popcorn, and a fancy cheese tray you definitely Googled the night before).
At one point, you looked over and found him just watching you—quiet, awestruck.
“What?” you asked shyly.
“I don’t know how I got this lucky,” he murmured. “I really don’t.”
You crawled over to him, curled in his lap, and rested your head in the crook of his neck. “You’re a good man, Hayden. The best I’ve ever known. I wanted you to feel that today.”
He kissed your forehead and held you tighter.
“You make getting older feel like the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
—————————-
The final part of the day came as the sun started to set, and Hayden, blissed out and glowing, pulled the last card from the basket.
“Put on your boots.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Trust me,” you said.
You took him out back behind the house, where your surprise waited: a trail of lanterns strung from tree to tree, leading to a tiny handmade table with two chairs and a dinner you had stayed up making the night before.
His jaw dropped.
“You made all of this?”
You nodded shyly. “You said you never really got to have birthdays growing up. That you always kept them quiet. So I wanted this one to feel like love. All day. All you.”
He looked at the trees. The flickering lights. The plate of lemon chicken and roasted vegetables. The wine. The candles.
“You didn’t just give me love,” he said softly. “You gave me home.”
——————-
Later, you danced barefoot under the stars to one of his favorite old Frank Sinatra songs—your cheek pressed to his chest, his hand firm on your lower back. He smelled like clean soap and cinnamon. You didn’t need music. His heartbeat was enough.
And when he kissed you—there, in the quiet, soft and slow—it wasn’t just a thank you. It was a vow.
A promise that no matter how old he got, how many candles were on the cake, you’d still look at him like he was the sun.
Like he was the center of your whole sky.
Because he was.
He always had been.
———————————-
After dinner under the lantern-lit trees and your little barefoot dance to Frank Sinatra, you took Hayden’s hand and tugged him gently toward the house.
“Wait,” he said, smiling, “I thought that was the last surprise.”
You grinned. “Almost. One more. The grand finale.”
Back inside, you had lit a dozen candles around the kitchen, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. And right in the center of the table sat the cake.
Triple chocolate, homemade, a little uneven—but endearing in the way only a cake baked with love can be. And written in thick white frosting across the top were the words:
“Older. Wiser. Hotter.”
Hayden blinked. And then laughed.
A real, full-bellied laugh that echoed off the walls, his eyes crinkling, cheeks turning pink.
“Oh my God,” he chuckled, walking over to it. “You did not.”
“You’re all three,” you said with a proud little shrug. “And don’t act like you don’t know it.”
He turned back to look at you—eyes full of warmth, affection, and that sleepy kind of joy that only came when he was completely, deeply happy.
“You are ridiculous,” he said fondly.
“Am I wrong?”
He kissed you right there, arms winding around your waist. “No. But now I feel like I need a cake for you that says ‘Young. Beautiful. Brilliant. Mine.’”
You buried your face in his chest with a laugh. “You are such a dork.”
“Says the woman who frosted hotter on my cake.”
“You’re not denying it.”
He grinned. “Never would.”
Then he pulled out a fork, cut into the cake without hesitation, and fed you the first bite—just before saying, mouth full, “Okay but seriously… this is the best cake I’ve ever had.”
You smiled. “Happy birthday, Hayden.”
“Best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured, licking frosting from your lips. “And that’s not just the sugar talking.”
You were stretched out across Sam’s twin dorm bed, wearing his hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks you stole from your own room two doors down. The blanket was barely clinging to your hips, the cheap dorm mattress creaking softly every time you shifted. But the real soundtrack of the room was the scratch of pencil on paper and the occasional huff Sam let out when something didn’t come out quite the way he wanted.
He sat on the edge of his desk chair, hunched over his sketchpad, brows drawn together, hair a little too messy from where he kept running his fingers through it. The lamp cast a warm glow across his face, catching the shadows in his jaw and the concentration in his expression like it was meant to be painted itself.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. You didn’t want to.
“How long are you gonna look at me like that?” he muttered without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re making it hard to draw.”
You smiled lazily. “I’m not doing anything. You’re the one being all… artsy and broody.”
Sam huffed a laugh. “Broody, huh?”
“Tragically handsome, tortured soul,” you teased, rolling onto your side. “You’re living the full art school fantasy.”
He finally looked over his shoulder at you, lips twitching into a smile despite himself. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“You’re cute,” you said, voice going a little dreamy as you tucked your chin onto your arm. “Do you even realize how good you look right now?”
He shook his head and turned back to the sketchpad, but not before you caught the pink that bloomed across his cheeks.
You watched his hand glide across the paper, wrist loose, pencil catching the light. Every so often, his fingers would smudge something deliberately, and you knew he hated when things looked too clean. Too safe.
“You always look like you’re in your own world when you draw,” you murmured, voice soft. “Like the world’s quiet in your head for once.”
Sam slowed his movement, glancing at you again really looking this time.
“It is quieter when I’m drawing,” he said. “Especially when you’re here.”
You swallowed a little too hard at that, heart tripping over itself.
“What are you sketching?” you asked, voice suddenly more fragile.
He hesitated, then tilted the sketchpad toward you.
It was a quick study of you messy lines, some shading still unfinished, but unmistakably you. Your arm bent beneath your head, the folds of his hoodie around your shoulders, the tilt of your gaze fixed somewhere just past the viewer.
You blinked. “Is that… when I was laying here like ten minutes ago?”
He nodded. “You were just looking at me. Like I mattered.”
Your throat went tight.
“You do matter,” you said softly, reaching a hand out toward him.
Sam stood, dropping the sketchpad onto the desk, and crossed to the bed, climbing over you until he settled beside you, half-on, half-wrapped around you.
“I know,” he murmured, nuzzling into your neck. “I just forget sometimes. But then you look at me like that, and it’s like…” He paused, pressing a kiss under your jaw. “Like maybe I’m not so messed up after all.”
You rolled into his arms fully, hands coming up to his cheeks. “You’re not messed up,” you whispered. “You’re real. And you’re everything.”
His breath hitched, and for a moment he just stared at you like he couldn’t believe you were his.
“I was supposed to finish that drawing,” he murmured.
“Finish it later,” you said, curling up against his chest. “Right now you’re busy being worshipped.”
He laughed, arms tightening around you, and whispered into your hair: “Fine. But only if you keep looking at me like I’m magic.”
You smiled against him. “Deal.”
And in the warmth of his dorm room, with his sketchpad forgotten and your hearts pressed together, magic didn’t feel so far away at all.
