Universe’s Little Jokes

 

There’s something deceptive about a still morning. At seventeen, I thought the world was paused just for me: sunlight gently pressing on my back, air warm and steady, humming with  a handful of sparrows darting in and out. The universe, I was convinced, was basically holding its breath, waiting for me to do something profound. Spoiler: I didn’t.

One sparrow caught my eye as it drifted off on its own. Naturally, I followed — because that’s exactly the sort of thing a deep, thoughtful teenager would do, right? Drift along with nature and pretend to understand it.  For a moment, I was the main character. Or at least, I thought I was.  

Until the curtain lifted.

A blur of orange fur cut across the path, fast and silent. One leap, one muffled squeal, and the sparrow was gone. Just like that.

Curtain down. Audience stunned. Lead actor dead before the first line.

The culprit, you ask? Majestic and annoyingly fluffy, with copper eyes that caught mine for just a second — the kind you’d expect to see lounging on a velvet throne, not committing daylight murder. It looked at me or rather through me, as if I’d inconvenienced it. I swear it smirked. Which is impressive, considering cats technically can’t.

Whiskers twitching as if daring me to intervene, it held the bird in its jaws, flicked its tail and sauntered off with the kind of confidence only cats and hardened criminals seem to possess.

Obviously, I followed. Because if there’s one thing worse than witnessing murder, it’s letting the murderer get away with it.
Also, I was bored. Honestly, that was probably the real reason.

But the undergrowth swallowed the cat, and I was left standing there with nothing but silence, an empty patch of grass, and the awkward realisation that I wasn’t the main character after all.

Looking back now, I can laugh at how dramatic I made it in my head. Teenage me thought I’d just witnessed the fragility of life. Adult me knows I just got humbled by a smug cat.