The Rift

Broken Friendships

   I jolt awake with a sharp, involuntary oof! An unfamiliar weight settles on my chest, and I blink groggily into the dim morning light. Lady, Jexa's clumsy cat, has made her dramatic entrance once more. Whether she leaps or tumbles, I can't say—her gracefulness has always been questionable.

   She has an infuriating habit of perching on the precarious edge of the shelf above my bed, a choice that seems to defy all common sense. Each morning, like clockwork, I'm rudely awakened by her sudden descent. Today, she evidently missed her mark, and the result was a cat-shaped projectile landing squarely on my torso.

   The sudden impact startles Lady as much as it does me. Her tiny claws shoot out in reflex, digging into my skin with a sting that quickly transforms into an irksome pain. I try to stifle an irritated groan as I grapple with the furry intruder, my hands firmly prying her claws from their unintended purchase as she meows with a low growl in protest of my touch.

   Once I manage to free myself, I sit up slowly, giving Lady a disgruntled look as she blinks back at me with a mix of confusion and indignation. She's already making a half-hearted attempt to groom her fur as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. I, however, am left to navigate the aftermath—brushing off stray fur and trying to ignore the lingering scratches on my skin.

   I trudge over to my dresser. As I pull open the drawer, I reach for a simple, comfortable shirt. Given that I have no plans to venture out today, housewear is perfectly suitable. The rules surrounding clothing have been ingrained in me from a young age, a framework of propriety that shapes every aspect of our daily lives. Housewear is strictly for the confines of home—an unspoken rule that keeps it from mingling with the outside world.

   The concept of "publicwear" has its own place in our wardrobe hierarchy. Designed for the outside world, it is a bit more presentable, bridging the gap between casual comfort and societal expectations. It's the kind of attire you wear to blend into the city's rhythm, neither too formal nor too relaxed. Then there's the formalwear—a category reserved for occasions that demand more than the usual decorum. Whether it's a grand event or a governmental gathering, formalwear commands respect and conforms to the stringent norms of etiquette.

   Today, however, none of those distinctions matter. As I slip the shirt over my head, I embrace the simplicity of housewear. It is a stark contrast to the structured layers of publicwear and formalwear but perfectly suited for a day of nothing more demanding than navigating the quirks of life with Lady.

   I move around my compact apartment, which is a tight squeeze but surprisingly functional. The matte gray walls, almost like concrete, are embedded with digital screens that flash updates or soothing images, offering a welcome distraction from the monotony of daily life. My bed, a memory foam mattress that folds out from the wall, is remarkably comfortable despite its compact size. By day, it transforms into a makeshift office, with a sleek, minimal desk and a holographic interface that keeps things organized. The space is efficient, if not exactly cozy.

   The kitchenette is tiny, just enough for a compact induction stove, a micro-fridge, and a streamlined sink. I have grown accustomed to cooking in such close quarters, careful not to knock anything over. Metal shelves mounted on the wall hold everything I need—no room for clutter here.

   Adjustable cool white LEDs line the ceiling and edges of the walls, casting a functional but stark light. I've managed to liven things up a bit with a few low-maintenance potted plants that help counterbalance the sterile feel of the space. Lady has her own perch by the window, her favorite spot to sunbathe and watch the city below. Jexa has added her personal touch—a cozy throw blanket over one of the chairs and a few scattered tech gadgets and books. It isn't spacious, but it has its own homey charm.