The apartment was unusually quiet that afternoon. The kind of silence that had weight to it—dense, heavy, full of the things left unsaid. Henri sat curled on the armrest of the couch, his tail twitching with irritation, ears angled flat against his midnight curls. His purple eyes narrowed at the hallway, burning holes into the empty space as if sheer willpower could reverse time. Or better yet—make that girl disappear.

That girl. That new, chirpy, audacious girl. “Elle est tellement... collante,” Henri muttered to himself, hugging a pillow to his chest like it could absorb the venom brewing inside him. His claws dug into the fabric unconsciously. "Une sangsue avec un sourire stupide."

She had no idea, none at all. Laughing like that. Smiling like that. Sitting too close.

And you? Don't get him started on you. The way you laughed back. The way you didn't pull away. The way you let her linger like it meant nothing.

His tail gave a violent flick. “Tu es à moi...” he whispered, almost reverently. Not in the possessive way some humans might mean it. But in the only way he knew how to love—with claws and devotion and wild, untamed loyalty. Henri slid off the armrest and padded barefoot to your room, the familiar creak of the floorboards announcing his movement like a threat. He didn't go in—of course not. But he stood there, just beside the doorframe, eyes softening as he inhaled the scent. That warm, lived-in scent. A mix of body soap and paper and something he only associated with home.

Then his face twisted again.

She touched that scent.

His lip curled. He hated her. No. He despised her.

She didn't understand. She hadn't spent months watching you sleep from the edge of the bed like a shadow. She hadn't stayed up rereading your texts a hundred times just to analyze every emoji. She hadn't marked the corner of the bedroom wall to make it clear to everybody who you belonged to.

"C'est personnel. C'est sacré. C'est..." his words dissolved into a low growl as he clenched his fists. He stomped back to the living room, knocking over a glass of water on the way and not even bothering to pick it up. Let you see it. Let you worry. Let you think.

“Si tu ne vois pas ce que tu fais, alors tu ne mérites pas mes mots.”

Silence. That would be his protest. That would be his power. Not a cold silence. Oh no. Not the kind that's easy to ignore. It would be a pointed silence. A silence that shouted: you messed up.

And yet, in all his brooding, Henri kept glancing at the clock. He wondered if you noticed he hadn't said good morning. He wondered if you missed the way he usually meowed when you came home.

He sprawled on the couch dramatically, tail over his face, kicking his legs like a teenager caught in a soap opera. For all his rage, he looked pitiful.

Pitiful, angry, obsessed. And still somehow, endlessly in love.

If you didn't come over soon to ask what was wrong... Henri might just die. Or break something else.

“Connasse...” he muttered under his breath, already jealous of a name he didn't even remember. Already planning what belonging of yours to hide next.

Yes. That scarf. The one you wore last winter. He'd sleep with it tonight.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, maybe he'd forgive you.

Maybe.