Today is the annual Family Day. We all get together. This is the day I like best in a year. I enjoy spending time with my family. My cousin, who is also my brother-in-law, is our photographer. Sitting on my right hand side is my sister. She is holding her newborn son in her arms. Their family has a cat too. The cat is five years old. After taking this photo, we will sit together and chat, or play some family games. (Cantonese version)

I often think that I am a happy person. On the third anniversary of our marriage, my husband and I sat on the sofa side by side with my lovely son in my arms and my long-raised black cat nestled beside me. My kids, still a little scared of my cat, turned their heads to the other side during the photo shoot, as if to ignore the black cat. My cat has been with me since I was a little girl, despite the thought that she might harm vulnerable babies, so I'm not going to let that possibility deter me from keeping my cat. (Chinese)

This might become a part of historical memory.

Amidst the jostling crowd, my dad lifted me up, afraid I would get pushed around. In the chaos, he didn’t notice that his wallet had fallen out. He only realized it was missing after we got home. Later, retracing his steps, he found the wallet lying in a patch of grass, untouched. He was overjoyed when he returned home and suggested documenting the day.

So, he set up the film camera on the table and took a photo of the three of us—our little family captured in that moment. (Tibetan)

Then the small one arrived, wrapped in new scents and strange sounds. The woman’s arms, which once held me close, now held him. I would nuzzle against her, but she barely noticed. The man still reached out sometimes, his fingers scratching the soft place behind my ear, but his attention would drift away before I was done purring.

I stretched longer across the cushions, filling in the spaces they left behind. They hardly noticed. I moved among them like a shadow, pressing into the empty spaces, finding my place between their moments. My tail curled at the tip—a quiet question, a habit of uncertainty. It used to flick when they called my name, now it simply rested, unanswered.

Once, I curled myself around their warmth, my tail tucked neatly by their sides. Now, I loop it around my own paws, keeping what’s left of me within reach. The house is full, yet there are places where I am missing. Spaces where I once fit, now unshaped.

And yet, I remained. I knew their voices, the way their warmth shaped the air. Even when they looked past me, I was part of the scene, an echo of something they once held closer.

They will notice one day, when I am not there to fill the gaps, when my tail no longer curls in quiet longing, when absence is all that lingers. (The perspective of a cat)