Tiger In My Room May 2026
The tiger turns its head. For a second, its gaze pins me—not with hunger, but with patience. As if it’s been waiting for me to stop running from something. As if it’s not the intruder. I am the one who forgot I belonged here, in this room, with this impossible animal.
Carefully, I sit down beside it. The tiger exhales. The room grows warmer. tiger in my room
I’ll know it was real.
Outside, the world keeps honking and buzzing. Deadlines, alarms, things I swore I’d fix. But inside, the tiger stretches, and for the first time in months, I close my eyes without planning my escape. The tiger turns its head
In the morning, it will be gone. No paw prints. No scratch marks. Just the faint smell of dust and sun, and a single orange hair on my pillow. As if it’s not the intruder
It blinks slowly. That’s what cats do when they trust you.