HE HAD NO HOME, NO FAMILY—EXCEPT FOR THE CAT THAT SLEPT ON HIS CHEST EVERY NIGHT. “SHE CHOSE ME,” HE SAID. “THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS.”
The first time I saw him, it was just past midnight outside the 24-hour laundromat.
He was curled up on a ripped camping mat like it was the softest bed in the world, the dim neon sign flickering above him.
On his chest lay a small orange cat, her fur patchy, one ear half-gone.
She was draped over him like she belonged there—her rise and fall perfectly in sync with his breathing.
His shoes were held together with strips of duct tape, soles worn so thin I could see the outline of his toes.
A plastic grocery bag sat beside him, holding everything he owned—a chipped mug, a frayed blanket, and a paperback missing its cover.
When I walked past, he looked up, not with suspicion, but with a kind of quiet warmth.
He shifted slightly so the cat wouldn’t stir.
“You like coffee?” he asked, as though we were meeting in a café instead of a cracked sidewalk.
Before I could answer, he gently scratched the cat’s chin.
“This is Miso. She chose me. That’s all that matters.”
I found myself coming back night after night, sometimes with sandwiches, sometimes just to talk.
I learned he used to work construction, that the cat had started following him after she found him shivering under an overpass during a rainstorm.
“Guess we were both looking for somewhere to belong,” he said once, smiling faintly.
One evening, after weeks of seeing him there, I walked up with a small cardboard box.
“For you,” I said.
Inside was a thick blanket, a thermos, and—because I couldn’t help myself—a tiny sweater for Miso.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Then, softly, “You know… no one’s given me a gift in years.”
Miso stretched, purred, and tucked herself deeper against his chest.
That night, I realized something—sometimes home isn’t a place.
Sometimes, it’s the weight of a cat on your heart and the warmth of a stranger who keeps coming back.