Husband and I inhabit a small two-bedroom flat, just the right size for a couple. We’re on such a high floor that when we look up from the ground, our home is a tiny dot no larger than a peanut, a particle of dirt flung into the sky. This minuscule speck is more than enough for me. Apart from accommodating me and Husband, it holds our wardrobes, chairs, sofas, bed, and many, many more miscellaneous items, cramming it full. And now, without any effort, we’d thrown a cat in there too. What an obliging little dot!

Day by day, the kitten grew used to his new surroundings. Having made the rounds and explored every corner, he declared dominion over all he surveyed. He lay wherever he wanted, including on Husband and me, incorporating us into his territory too.

Soon, Cat had occupied every space in the flat, which didn’t seem smaller as a result but rather increased in size. And the expanding part was Cat himself.

Cat was a new flat within this old flat, a tiny dwelling within our already small one. Living with a cat is like living within a cat: no matter what’s happening outside, you won’t necessarily notice. The cat flat contained only the cat and nothing else, not even memory. I would often forget I was cooking, until the stench of the scorched pan reminded me. Right up to that point, I’d have been playing with the kitty, lavishing him with all my attention—waving a wand to make him dart around and leap into the air thoroughly revved up.

I clung greedily to every moment in the cat flat, not just because I wanted to spend more time on kitty games but also because its walls were velvety fur, and I could run my hands across them this way and that—so smooth—while Cat’s soft purr purr purrs were broadcast right into my ears, as if the cat flat contained a surround sound system, cocooning me in tranquility.

The floor of the cat flat consisted of fleshy paw pads, pink and tender, perfectly springy and softer than any carpet, more shock absorbent than any floorboard, more anti-slip than any tile. They yielded gently with each step, then sprang back instantly.

The only windows were Cat’s eyes. Peering through them, you’d glimpse a cavernous hollow in his body, now dark and now light, mysterious and unpredictable. The space stretched beyond the bounds of my vision, reaching even farther than when I stood at the top of my building gazing at the sprawling city. There were no borders in sight, and unlike the city, the space was not crammed full of apartment blocks, car-filled roads, and heaving crowds.

What an endlessly changing world. One moment it darkened, turning into a vast cave in which nothing could be seen, threatening to swallow everything, so I clung tightly to the floorboards, terrified of being sucked into the blackness. Finally, a glimmer of light would appear, and only in its reassuring glow would I let out a sigh of relief. Just like that, the space would transform into a resplendent paradise. Here were swings, parallel bars, spiral slides, seesaws, and across the uneven ground were glossy green wheatgrass and fluttering butterflies for Cat to chase. He sprinted back and forth, over and under, blissfully happy. I wanted to be in this vibrant wonderland too but couldn’t find an entrance, so I had to watch from outside as Cat lived his best life, completely at ease. I gazed, mesmerized, as the light dimmed, until the playground disappeared and all I could see was myself in the glass with longing in my eyes for that extinguished idyll. My heart could be seen in the reflection too, thumping steadily, and if I listened closely, I could hear a clear echo.