My person has been in bed all day; she does this sometimes. She’s up now, although in slow motion. Her eyes are red and puffy, oppressed by dark circles. My person sits, writing a note: “I’m sorry.” I jump onto the table, and rub my face on her hand; she scratches me under my chin and I purr. I then get pushed away. She’s in the bathroom now, hunched, withered over the cold sink. It’s quiet. I hear only the sounds of inhaling and exhaling--the physical symptoms of being alive. I let out a mew while examining my person’s bowed back, and she looks up to the mirror where our eyes meet against its surface. Her gaze drifts, but she avoids looking at herself. The light flickers off an object she holds to her wrist, and she pauses. Something’s dripping in the sink, but the faucet isn’t on. Each breath becomes more hesitant, until she’s on the floor tile and it ceases. I rub my face against her cold fingers and sniff the pools staining the grout; inhaling the grungy, metallic scent. I leave the bathroom, looking back at the crimson trail that stalks my every step.