Not a metaphor. Not a dream I’m still shaking off. A real tiger—shoulder-high, amber-eyed, with paws the size of dinner plates resting on my wool rug. Its stripes ripple when it breathes.
I don’t know how it got in. My door was locked. The windows face a fifth-floor drop. But here it is, settled across my unmade bed, tail flicking lazily against the floorboards. My homework is under its left flank. I don’t care. tiger in my room
It blinks slowly. That’s what cats do when they trust you. Not a metaphor
Carefully, I sit down beside it. The tiger exhales. The room grows warmer. Its stripes ripple when it breathes
There’s a 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.