Tiger In My Room File

I’ll know it was real.

Outside, the world keeps honking and buzzing. Deadlines, alarms, things I swore I’d fix. But inside, the tiger stretches, and for the first time in months, I close my eyes without planning my escape. tiger in my room

In the morning, it will be gone. No paw prints. No scratch marks. Just the faint smell of dust and sun, and a single orange hair on my pillow. I’ll know it was real

I don’t know how it got in. My door was locked. The windows face a fifth-floor drop. But here it is, settled across my unmade bed, tail flicking lazily against the floorboards. My homework is under its left flank. I don’t care. But inside, the tiger stretches, and for the

The tiger turns its head. For a second, its gaze pins me—not with hunger, but with patience. As if it’s been waiting for me to stop running from something. As if it’s not the intruder. I am the one who forgot I belonged here, in this room, with this impossible animal.

I should be terrified. Maybe I am, but distantly, like hearing thunder from inside a safe house. The tiger yawns. Its tongue curls, pink and rough as a cat’s, and I smell dry grass and warm fur. No blood. No threat.

It blinks slowly. That’s what cats do when they trust you.