I’ve never been one for crowds. Or small talk. Or, honestly, people in general. My world has always been contained in glowing screens, lines of code, and the quiet satisfaction of making something work. It’s predictable, logical, and safe—everything the outside world isn’t. So when I found him, soaking wet and shivering under a bush on my way back from class, I didn’t expect my carefully constructed life to change.
He was tiny, scruffy, and a complete mess—his fur matted, his big amber eyes wide with fear. I don’t know what came over me, but I couldn’t just leave him there. I wrapped him in my hoodie and whispered, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
I named him Oliver, and from the moment I brought him home, he made himself known. At first, he was wary, darting under the couch every time I moved. I didn’t push him, though. Instead, I’d sit on the floor with my laptop, debugging code while keeping the room quiet. Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. One night, he padded over and plopped himself on my keyboard, scattering my carefully crafted lines of code across the screen. I laughed for the first time in what felt like forever.
Oliver became my constant companion. He’d curl up on my lap during late-night coding sessions, his gentle purring blending with the hum of my CPU. It was like he understood the rhythm of my life—intense focus, moments of frustration, and the small victories of solving a problem.
But Oliver didn’t just fit into my world; he started pulling me out of it. One day, while I was working on a freelance project, my neighbor leaned over the fence and asked, “Hey, do you build websites? I need one for my shop.”
I froze. Talking to a stranger? Working on a project that wasn’t neatly tucked behind an email thread? No, thank you. But Oliver, sitting on the windowsill with his tail flicking in lazy encouragement, seemed to say otherwise. And before I knew it, I was saying, “Sure, I can help.”
That one website turned into more requests—word spread, and soon I was balancing freelance gigs with my own projects. It was overwhelming, but Oliver was always there, a quiet cheerleader who sat beside me no matter how late it got. He became my break timer, forcing me to step away by stretching across my keyboard or nudging me until I followed him to the kitchen.
Then came the big opportunity: a tech showcase in town. I was invited to present an app I’d been building, but the idea of standing in front of people and talking about my work made my palms sweat. I almost turned it down. But Oliver sat on my desk, staring at me like he knew I was about to chicken out. And somehow, that little cat gave me the courage to say yes.
On the day of the showcase, I brought Oliver with me. He stayed in his carrier by the booth, drawing more attention than my app at first. People loved him, and that made it easier for me to talk to them. By the end of the event, I’d not only shared my work, but I’d also met people who genuinely wanted to collaborate. For the first time, I realized how much I’d been holding myself back.
As we walked home that evening, Oliver trotting alongside me, I looked down and said, “You know, Ollie, you’ve done more for me than I ever expected.”
He didn’t respond, of course, but the soft nudge of his head against my hand was all the answer I needed.