Watching someone lose their pet feels like having my heart squeezed, strangled, beaten, and cut out of my chest.

Losing Kitty absolutely broke my heart. It felt like my heart was squeezed, strangled, beaten, cut out of my chest and squeezed again. And again. Several times a day, every day.

I miss her so much it hurts.

Pictures blur, I'm scrolling through them so quickly on my phone, looking for moments with her. I see a flash of brown fur and I stop, scroll back and click. 

Kitty is sitting on the floor of our room, posture perfect, not looking too interested in the toy I'm moving forward and back, except for how she moves her gaze, back and forth, watching it. I know all her signs. 

In the video, I yank the string back and she jerks forward, then smoothly transitions into a crouch, as though that was what she planned all along. This time her head visibly moves in tune with the toy I remember teasing her with, and then she lowers her head, her eyes go wide, her butt wiggles, and—she pounces. 

She lands on the toy and her claws can't find any grip in the parquet floor, so she keeps sliding and I scoop her up into my arms as I lie back, cuddling her on my chest. She leaps off right after, of course, but turns around and looks at me, those smart eyes that talk to me, that cute pink nose, those tabby cat "m"s on her forehead.

And I start to cry. Not in the video, of course. Everything was okay at that time.

I hop off my bed and close the door, sinking onto my pink rug, which still has Kitty's fur on it. I lean back against my bed, choking on my tears as quietly as I can. Kitty is family for all of us – me, Mom, Dad and Pammy – and we all miss her. We all cried together and hugged each other and ordered in food we didn't want to eat. 

I know they're still checking on me; Kitty and I spent almost every moment together whenever I was home, following each other around, and everyone knows we were, are, best friends. And even though I know they're still willing to drop everything and try to make me feel better, I want to hide in my room and cry by myself, here in this room we shared since I was five years old, where I feel her closer to me than anywhere else.

"Cat!"

I know that's someone calling me by my nickname, but now my thoughts always flit to Kitty first. I kind of like it that way.

I push off my bed and step into the hallway, leaning over the railing to be heard downstairs. "Yeah?" I quickly wipe my eyes.

Mom's auburn head pops into view and she looks up at me, her hand covering the bottom of her cell phone. "Pam's calling you."

My jaw drops. "From a cell phone? We live in the same hou—"

Mom laughs. "No, from the basement. Can you go to her? I'm on the phone and it's important."

I groan. I both hate and love when Pam calls me like this—when I need her, I go to her. When she needs me, she hollers for me until I come running. And I always do. I sigh. This is love.

I run down the stairs, picturing my dad reminding me not to run down the stairs, whip past Mom, and continue hurrying down the stairs to the basement.

"Pam?"

It's dark and voices are coming from the TV. They cut mid-sentence and Pam sits up on the couch, ushering me over.

"I can't find anything good to watch. Want to watch Harry Potter?"

I'm torn. I love our spontaneous movie hangouts but in two hours my friends are coming over to celebrate the end of exams and right now all I want to do is curl up in bed and be sad.

Pam picks up on my hesitation and her face falls. "I thought you were free now—no more exams."

I lean against the arm of the couch. "I am."

"And Almira and them aren't coming over until dinner, right?"

"Yeah, true."

"So..."

I perch on the couch next to her. "Is there any chance tomorrow after you finish school would work?"

Pam nudges her computer just in time to stop the screen from falling asleep. "No, I'm going back out again as soon as Mom gets home with the car."

"Hmm. Okay then how about—wait, I need the car tomorrow night. Almira and I are going to the movies."

"Ugh!" Pam sits up. "I booked the car like a week ago."

I bite my lip. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Pam's voice gets even firmer. "And you always borrow the car, so I think it's my turn—"

"What? I don't even use it more than twice a week! All my friends are within walking distance! And Elizabeth usually drives, or Al—"

"Then one of them can drive you tomorrow, right? Jeff won't have the car—I have no other option." Pam sits back against the couch and clicks play on her computer, filling the room with competing angry voices.

"Dad says we always have options." I realize how annoying it must sound to hear me say that, but I can't take it back now—plus it's true. I slide off to the edge of the couch and stand up. "Hey, we're still talking—"

"Cat? Pammy?"

Pam hits pause on the computer and we look at each other. Mom's voice sounds...different.