- Mar 14, 2025
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Carminekit sits at the edge of camp, his back turned to the heart of the clearing where his denmates tumble over each other in an endless flurry of energy. Their laughter and excited mews fill the air, but he does not turn to watch. Instead, his amber eyes are fixed on a single curled leaf, brittle and brown, that twitches in the faint breeze. It scuttles forward, then back, as if uncertain whether to keep going or surrender to stillness. He lifts a paw and presses it down on the leaf, feeling the dry veins crumple beneath his pads. It is fragile, weaker than he expected. When he pulls his paw away, the leaf is bent, one side broken off entirely. He stares at the torn edges, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.
The wind picks up again, and the half-leaf shifts, dragging itself toward the camp entrance. Carminekit follows its movement, his tail curling around his paws. He could chase it. If he wanted, he could bat it back toward himself, keep it from vanishing into the unknown beyond the bramble barrier. But he stays still. It isn't worth it. A shadow stretches beside him, and he tenses for just a moment before recognizing it as nothing more than a passing cloud overhead. He lets out a slow breath and shifts his weight, claws flexing against the dirt. It isn't that he dislikes company, not entirely—but he finds it exhausting. The constant noise, the unspoken expectations, the need to respond in ways that feel unnatural to him. Out here, at the edge of camp, he can simply exist.
His ears flick at the sound of approaching pawsteps. He does not look up, but his shoulders tighten. He knows what comes next. A casual greeting, an invitation to play, or worse—a question about why he is sitting alone. He braces himself for the interruption, already preparing a clipped response. But the pawsteps pause. Whoever it is hesitates, as if reconsidering, before turning away. The sound of retreating steps is almost a relief. Carminekit exhales, eyes lowering back to the leaf—now long gone, carried away by the wind.
The wind picks up again, and the half-leaf shifts, dragging itself toward the camp entrance. Carminekit follows its movement, his tail curling around his paws. He could chase it. If he wanted, he could bat it back toward himself, keep it from vanishing into the unknown beyond the bramble barrier. But he stays still. It isn't worth it. A shadow stretches beside him, and he tenses for just a moment before recognizing it as nothing more than a passing cloud overhead. He lets out a slow breath and shifts his weight, claws flexing against the dirt. It isn't that he dislikes company, not entirely—but he finds it exhausting. The constant noise, the unspoken expectations, the need to respond in ways that feel unnatural to him. Out here, at the edge of camp, he can simply exist.
His ears flick at the sound of approaching pawsteps. He does not look up, but his shoulders tighten. He knows what comes next. A casual greeting, an invitation to play, or worse—a question about why he is sitting alone. He braces himself for the interruption, already preparing a clipped response. But the pawsteps pause. Whoever it is hesitates, as if reconsidering, before turning away. The sound of retreating steps is almost a relief. Carminekit exhales, eyes lowering back to the leaf—now long gone, carried away by the wind.
