On days like today, when I just need the time and space to bury my head and hide from the world, he shuns his bed and the pillows on the couch and the pile of blankets he used to carefully create the perfect nest. And instead he insists on wedging himself into the space between my arms and the latest library novel. There he sits, squished and barely able to breathe, but still a happy little furry ball with his head on my shoulder. His eyes look at me… he’s okay with what he sees. And that’s when I know why he’s mine.