These days with Guigui

Tonight, something shifted.

Guigui curled into the crook of my neck, so light and warm, as if he belonged there. I reached up to stroke his fur and realized—his bones no longer jutted out sharply. The ridge of his spine has softened. His ribs aren’t ghosting through his skin anymore. He’s filling out, slowly but surely.

And then I heard it:
A deep, rumbling purr—loud and steady like a little motorcycle engine.

I froze for a moment, just listening.

He was purring. Not faintly, not shyly. But fully, openly, and freely.
Like he finally felt safe.

It wasn’t long ago that he looked so fragile I was afraid to touch him.
Two weeks ago, I found him severely malnourished, withdrawn, and barely grooming himself. His eyes were glassy, his meows were weak or absent, and he had wounds on his mouth that made eating painful. I didn’t know if he’d make it. Every feeding felt like a prayer. Every bathroom break a small victory.

I had to syringe-feed him at times, coax him with wet food, and keep him clean when he couldn’t manage on his own. The vet gave him antibiotics and supplements, and I gave him time, warmth, and as much love as he would allow.

Slowly, he started grooming again. He began exploring small corners. He responded to my voice. He stopped hiding. And tonight… he purrs. Not because I coaxed him, not because he was afraid—but because he wanted to.

He’s curled into me now like I’m home.
And maybe—for him—I am.

It’s a small moment.
But it feels like a mountain.
A sound I never knew I needed.
A softness I didn’t think would come.

Guigui is healing.
And so, maybe, am I.