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.
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
The tiger turns its head. For a second, its gaze pins me—not with hunger, but with patience. As if it’s been waiting for me to stop running from something. As if it’s not the intruder. I am the one who forgot I belonged here, in this room, with this impossible animal. Outside, the world keeps honking and buzzing