Content Warning: Pet Loss, Sudden Death
Dear Friend,
It’s been three years since my cat, Zaizai, passed away—three years that feel like both a moment and an eternity. November 1st, 2020, marked the day I lost not just a pet, but a part of myself. He was ten years old, which isn’t a short time for a cat, but it’s not the long, full life I always hoped he would have. Cats can live well beyond a decade, and I thought we’d have more time. The fact that he passed away suddenly, because of an acute illness, only deepened the shock and disbelief. It was abrupt, unfair, and left me with questions that would never have answers.
I’ve heard people say that our pets never really leave us, and that their presence stays with us wherever we go. For an international student like me, studying far from home, this sentiment should be comforting. They tell me that my cat no longer waits for me by the window, that he follows me now, bound by love and memory. And sometimes, it does comfort me. But most days, it feels like a fragile hope I can’t quite grasp.
I miss him. I miss him so much that sometimes, in quiet moments, I forget that he’s really gone. I’ll catch myself expecting to hear his soft paws padding around the corner or feel the warmth of his body curled up beside me. It’s as if my heart doesn’t fully believe he’s not there. And then reality hits again: I wasn’t there in his final moments. The sadness of not being able to hold him one last time, to say goodbye properly, is something that still catches me off guard, even after all this time.
Living abroad adds its own layer to the grief. The distance amplifies my loneliness, making it feel like I’m carrying a secret ache that few around me can truly understand. People here talk about their homes and comforts, but I keep thinking about mine and how the space he left is still so raw. The guilt of not being there, of being thousands of miles away when he needed me most, is a wound that doesn’t heal easily.
There are moments when the words of others ring true, moments when I feel that he’s with me, that I carry him in my heart, no matter where I go. On those days, I imagined him as a quiet companion, a piece of home that traveled with me, easing the feeling of being untethered. But I often find myself caught in the reality of his absence. The finality of it is hard to accept, as though a part of me is still waiting for the day when I’ll open the door and he’ll be there, eyes bright and tail flicking, welcoming me back.
Grief is a strange, unpredictable thing. It’s like a wet jacket—if you wear it, it clings uncomfortably, heavy and damp, pressing against you with every step; but if you take it off, you’re left shivering in the cold, exposed and vulnerable. There’s no simple way to be free of it, only moments of choosing how to carry it, even when neither option feels quite right. And in those moments, I let myself miss him. I let myself feel the loss because pretending it doesn’t hurt won’t change anything.
If you’ve ever felt the ache of missing someone, even long after they’re gone, maybe you’ll understand. Our connections to those we love don’t disappear just because they’re not physically here. They linger, woven into our memories, our routines, and the quiet, unspoken parts of ourselves.
To my cat, wherever you may be:
I miss you. I hope, in some way, you still follow me, and that the comfort people speak of is more than just words. Maybe one day we’ll find each other again, but above all, I hope you are at peace and happy.
Take care,
Someone who is still learning to carry the loss
