The fourth day brought a shift. At the sound of the door, Snowball emitted a low hiss and bolted under the bedroom bed. Where he used to hide, now he fled. Crouching by the bed, I called softly. He huddled deep within, eyes glinting in the gloom. I pushed the food and water bowls near the edge. Only after I retreated did he emerge to eat. Why this growing fear? I knew I hadn't startled him, hadn't raised my voice. The behavior defied logic. Unless… his fear wasn't of me, but something else? Or he sensed my tension? Those small coincidences *had* unsettled me slightly. But how could a cat know?
Obsessive Cleanliness
The fifth day, I noted the apartment's state. Everything remained precisely as on day one: sofa cushion angles, remote control placement, spice jar order on the counter. Like no one lived here, or someone meticulously preserved a tableau. Barely a speck of dust. Sophia had been gone only five days. Unless she hired daily cleaners, this was unnaturally pristine. Washing my hands in the bathroom, I scanned the cabinet. Towels folded into crisp squares, military-style. Toothpaste, brush, mouthwash aligned with geometric precision. This wasn't tidiness; it was control. A pathological demand for order. My unease deepened.
Intuition
Back home that evening, I called Anna, a psychiatrist friend, tiptoeing around the subject. "Anna, if someone's home is obsessively perfect, like a showroom... what might that mean?" She chuckled. "Control issues. Anxiety, insecurity. Maybe OCD tendencies. Why? Date stressing you out?" "No," I said. "Just a neighbor's place. Feels off." "Some people are neat freaks," she dismissed. "Don't overthink." Hanging up, my disquiet persisted. That feeling of being watched returned. Though only the cat and I were present, an unseen gaze seemed palpable. Perhaps the glass-eyed butterflies, perhaps something more.
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