Christmas, Begin Again

Three days before Christmas, and my studio apartment smelled like instant ramen and broken dreams.

I was curled up on my secondhand couch, scrolling through Instagram with the kind of mindless desperation that only comes from avoiding your own thoughts. The tiny space heater beside me wheezed and sputtered, barely keeping the December chill at bay.

My rent was due in four days, and my bank account had exactly $47.32 left after I'd transferred everything else to Eddie last week.

Because my Eddie was struggling with family business, and I, as his girlfriend, should of course offer him help.

Even if the money I sent him wasn’t much, at least it made him understand that I was always with him, and that together we could overcome whatever trouble lied ahead.

After scrolling for a while, I suddenly paused on a photo of someone's pet under a Christmas tree, all golden lights and perfect ornaments, and felt that familiar ache in my chest.

Three months. Marshmallow, my little cat, had gone missing for three months now, and every time I saw a white cat on my feed, my heart still lurched with desperate hope.

My thumb kept scrolling.

And then it stopped.

Sophie Warren's Instagram story glowed on my screen like a slap to the face. Sophie—Eddie's "old friend" from his social circle, the influencer with two million followers and a smile that never reached her eyes. Sophie, who'd once looked at my thrift-store dress at a campus party and asked if I'd gotten it from a "vintage charity auction."

But I wasn't looking at Sophie.

I was looking at the cat in her arms.

White fur. Pink nose. That distinctive patch of cream behind the left ear that looked like a tiny cloud.

Marshmallow.

My Marshmallow.

The phone nearly slipped from my fingers. I sat up so fast my head spun, pressing my face closer to the screen as if I could somehow climb through it.

"Loving my new baby," Sophie's caption read, with a string of heart emojis. "She's absolutely PURR-fect for content creation!"

My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe. Three months ago, Marshmallow had vanished from my apartment while Eddie was cat-sitting. He'd been devastated—or so he'd seemed. He'd helped me put up flyers. He'd held me while I cried.

And now my cat was in Sophie Warren's penthouse.

I called Eddie before I could think. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone twice.

"Hey, babe." His voice was warm, casual. "What's up?"

"Why is Marshmallow with Sophie?"

Silence. Just long enough for my stomach to drop.

"What are you talking about?" He laughed, but it sounded wrong. Hollow. "Mikey, you're not making sense."

"I just saw her Instagram story. That's my cat, Eddie. That's Marshmallow. Why does Sophie have my cat?"

More silence. I could hear him breathing, could almost see him running his hand through his perfect golden hair the way he did when he was thinking.

"Oh, that." Another laugh.