At work, I am unproductive. I should have stayed home, but losing a cat doesn't exactly qualify for a sick day. I should have lied.

Daniel gave me Alf as a gift, to make me happy. I stood there, as Alf crawled out of the carrier, and said, "This is a bad idea." And Daniel persisted.

Three years later, Daniel tells me that Alf has to go. That I have to help him rehome my cat, the cat I raised from a kitten, my first real pet, the first face that I see every morning.

Everything that I read said that to chose an animal over a relationship was subhuman. That pets comes and go.

But I'm sitting here wondering what's next. What am I doing? He's not proposed, and it's been 7.5 years, and he just made me give away Alf. Do I even want to be with him anymore? But then I'd be truly alone, without even Alf.

We keep moving because of him. Because Daniel gets something in his head and can't rest until it's done. I'm getting tired of moving, of starting over, of having to make decisions about pieces of furniture and parting with pieces of my past.

Our lives are so entwined that to part seems impossible. He says that he does everything because he loves me and wants me to be happy, but I'm not sure that he really sees what he's done. To leave him means no car, no bed, divide up the knives, towels, and bank account. To leave seems impossible.

I can't think straight. All I want to do is go away to the island, to stay in a little cabin and curl up with Alf. With his paws pressed against my chest, his head resting on my arm.