It feels strange, almost unbearable, to write these words: Millie is gone. Even as I type them, there’s a part of me that wants to delete everything, as if not putting it into words will somehow keep her alive. But silence doesn’t change reality. Last night, my world shifted. My sweet Millie, who has been more than just a cat to me, left this world so suddenly that I still find myself holding my breath, waiting for her to reappear.

The night was stormy. Rain pounded so heavily outside that the walls seemed to tremble. The wind howled like a wounded thing, rattling windows and filling the air with a kind of grief that mirrored my own. Inside, chaos took over—I was on the floor, hands shaking, trying to give her CPR. My heart begged for a miracle with every push, every desperate attempt to bring her back. But no matter how much I tried, she slipped away.

There are moments in life that feel like they don’t belong to time, moments that stand outside of everything else, and this was one of them. The sound of the rain, the heaviness of my sobs, the weight of her still body—it all felt like a dream I could not wake from.

What breaks me even more is the memory of the night before. Millie had done something she hadn’t done in months—she slept beside us, curled up through the whole night. For so long, she had chosen her own spot, more independent in her routines. But that night, she returned to us, as if to give us a final gift. I wonder now: did she know? Was it her way of saying goodbye? A part of me believes she did.

If I had known it was her last night, I would have hugged her tighter. I would have memorized the warmth of her body pressed against me, the sound of her gentle purring, the softness of her fur beneath my hand. I would have whispered more words of love, though I told her countless times already. Love always feels like it wasn’t said enough once you lose the one you love.

Millie was never “just a cat.” She was my child, my best friend, and in many ways, my savior. During the darkest seasons of my life—when depression wrapped its claws around me and I felt like the world was closing in—it was Millie who saved me. She forced me to keep going, to get up when all I wanted was to sink into the weight of nothingness. She met me with love that asked for nothing but presence. She filled silences with her little purrs, and loneliness with her quiet companionship. She gave me laughter on days I didn’t think I’d smile again.

And now she has left, and with her goes a piece of me. The house feels different without her. Every corner holds a ghost of her presence—her favorite spots, her little routines, her paw prints etched invisibly into every room. I still catch myself waiting to hear her footsteps, still expecting her to greet me, still wanting to reach down and feel her brushing against my legs. But all that greets me now is absence.

Grief is a strange teacher. It arrives without warning and demands that we learn lessons we never asked for. In losing Millie, I am reminded of so many truths we often forget in the rush of our days:

• Presence is everything. The night she chose to sleep beside us was her gift of presence, and now it has become a memory more precious than anything I could own. We never know which moments will be our last, so the time we give each other matters more than we realize.
• Love is urgent. We always think we have more time—to hug tighter, to say the words, to give the kiss, to play one more game. The truth is, time is never promised. Love should never be delayed.
• Gratitude and grief are siblings. I grieve Millie so deeply because I am so grateful for what she gave me. The more someone fills your life with meaning, the greater the emptiness when they leave. Grief is not only pain—it is the echo of love.
• Pets are family. To some, she was “just a cat.” But to me, she was my family. She loved me when I felt unlovable, and I will carry her with me for the rest of my life. Her absence hurts because her presence was profound.

Today, I am broken. Tomorrow, I will still be broken. Healing from this will not be quick, nor do I want it to be. Because grief, in its sharpest form, is also a reminder that Millie’s life mattered. She mattered to me, and I will honor her by remembering.

Millie, my sweet girl, thank you. Thank you for saving me when I needed saving. Thank you for curling up beside me during sleepless nights, for greeting me when I came home tired, for staying by my side when I cried. Thank you for being my family, my comfort, my joy. You carried pieces of my heart with you, and though you are gone, I will never let go of you.

If only love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.