Tiger In My Room ((top)) Instant

Not a metaphor. Not a dream I’m still shaking off. A real tiger—shoulder-high, amber-eyed, with paws the size of dinner plates resting on my wool rug. Its stripes ripple when it breathes.

Carefully, I sit down beside it. The tiger exhales. The room grows warmer. tiger in my room

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. Not a metaphor

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. Its stripes ripple when it breathes