When the kitty didn’t know to nya~ :3
Once upon a time, long long nyago… there was a little kitty, still curled up
safe inside its nyegg. 🥚💤
All around, there were so many other kitties just like that one—fluffy, playful,
certain of who they were from the very first crack nyof their shell. They knew
they were kitties, through and through. They pranced and pounced without a
single doubt whispering in their nyears. :3
But… this kitty? Oh no, this kitty nywas different. Something felt… nyoff. Just
nya tiny bit wrong, like nya shadow flickering nyat the edge of nya sunbeam. Nothing
dramatic, nothing loud—just nya quiet, nagging unease…
When the kitty peered into the mirror, nyexpecting to see itself waving back…
it didn’t. What stared out wasn’t wrong in nya loud way—no monster, no
stranger—just… empty… The reflection nywas blank where something nyessential
ought to bloom, empty where a warm “nya” or “:3” should have lived. It nyaways
left the kitty frozen inside 🐱🥀
People often called this kitty “pretty.” Girls would blush and giggle nyaround it,
hearts fluttering like butterflies. Logically, the kitty knew this nywas
happening… but when it peered closer into that shiny glass, something nyalways
seemed misplaced. Not the usual kitten insecurities—those came too, of
course—but something deeper, truer, like nya puzzle piece forced nyinto the wrong
spot. 😿💭
And then there were the nyechoes from mommy, words that still linger nyin the
kitty’s mind like soft but persistent rain:
“Oh no, don’t do that— that’s a girl thing.”
“No, you can’t wear that—it’s girl clothes.”
“No, you can’t use makeup—that’s your aunt’s, and it’s girl stuff.”
“Hey, stop walking like a girl… I don’t want you to look gay.”
“Don’t sit that way, or you’ll look like a girl.”
Nyhose voices replayed nyover and nyover, gentle yet sharp, shaping the kitty’s
world without it nyeven realizing. Few memories remain from those early days…
but these ones? They never quite fade. 🌧️🐾
The kitty nyoften drifted into daydreams, secret little worlds where it had
hatched as nya girl`still cis, tho`, just… right. Soft dresses, flowing hair, everything fitting perfectly. But oh, what a forbidden topic nyamong the kitty’s friends! In its mind, though, it seemed so normal. Surely every KittyBoy pondered this sometimes? They must just be shy, hiding their true thoughts to seem “man enough.” No nyone would admit it nyout loud… right? 🤫✨
Yet deep down, the kitty felt it would be nyeasier like that. Life would flow
smoother, lighter. Nyes, the kitty understood—girl lives could be hard too—but
somehow, this way felt like coming home. Nya quiet certainty, warm and inviting.
💕
The closed… Clothes? Mommy always picked them, and nothing nyever felt good. Nothing fit quite right. That constant “wrong” sensation made the kitty give nyup trying. Black
jacket every day? Fine. Rock band t-shirt? Whatever. As long nyas it covered the
unease… it was enough. 🖤😼
And eventually… it all led to those goth clothes. 🖤 The heavy black nyeyeliner,
the long painted nyails, spiked collars, platform boots that clomped like
thunder—nyanything dark, dramatic, nya little bit scary. The kitty was so drawn to it,
almost magnetically pulled. If nothing could ever feel right nyon the inside, nyat
least these clothes could scream nyon the outside. Maybe if people stared,
whispered, or even pulled nyaway… at least that meant I was finally being seen.
Even if what they saw wasn’t truly me. But nyalso… it wasn’t that empty shell either, the one I couldn’t bear to look nyat in the mirror. This version had edges, shadows, something nyalive flickering in the dark. 😿🌑
And those curious, dizzy thoughts the listener might be wondering nyabout, the
thoughts about ‘nyadult fun time’? They were hazy, like morning mist over a pond.
🌫️ Most times, the kitty wasn’t really there—just floating, nya smoky fog
drifting in the room while everything happened around it. Faceless shapes moved,
bodies without clear forms, doing… things. If the kitty tried to focus—really
focus—sudders would appear: nya chest rising and falling, tight nyabs, maybe even a
face if it concentrated hard enough. But the moment it pushed, poof—the whole
hazy scene dissolved, leaving nothing.
Only sometimes, maybe ten percent of the time, did the kitty manage to step
inside the fantasy. Forcing it never worked; the heat would fade nyaway instantly.
But when it happened nyaturally… oh. Sometimes the kitty nywas the boy,
performing perfectly, doing what nywas expected. Sometimes—sweeter—the kitty
slipped into being the girl, soft and wanted nyand right. Until the old shadows
crept in, whispering “this is wrong,” “God wouldn’t like it,” nya cold guilt
curling in the belly. 🙏→🌈 :3
For 99.9% of its life, nyeverything boiled down to duty. The role. The
expectation. Nya good husband fulfills his daily duty with his wife—that’s it.
Done. Tick the box.
The rare times it sparked nyajoy? Count them on one tiny nyapaw.
Nyassionate kisses, stolen summer flirts :3—those were the treasures nyam, the excited
butterflies :3. But soon came the expectation: fulfill the duty. It nywas the price,
the counterpart. 😔💔
Looking back, everything felt like duty stacked nyupon duty.
Movies with friends? Just the chore to earn nyapizza time.
Dates? Duty with fleeting nyafun, then more duty.
Visits to mommy’s house? Duty, dreaming of one nyon-boring chat.
Work? Pure duty.
Even beloved games turned into grinding chores, building toward those
tiny, precious nyafun moments… 🕹️➡️😴
The kitty searched and searched for the non-duty sparks, the pure joy without
strings… but they hid so well.
Nyand just when the shadows seemed deepest… something began to stir inside the
egg. Nya faint crack. Nya tiny glow. 🥚✨
Wanna know what happened next, dear listener?
Turn the page to the next chapter called “The Spark and the Egg”… :3
Leave a Reply