Fluffy doesn't know I'm leaving.

She wakes everyone at 5am. Not because she needs anything. She just decided 5am is when things should start, and after a while you stop questioning it.

She loves sweet potatoes and fish. She goes into the garden and digs up mud like it owes her something. Water is her favourite thing in the world — any water, all water, water for no reason. She supervises everything: cooking, guitar, laptop work. She does not approve of phones. She'll sit and stare at you until you put it down.

She sleeps beside me. Every night. Has done for a long time now.

In September I'm moving to Lancaster. To study. To figure out the next version of things. It's the right decision — I know it is — but knowing that doesn't change what it feels like to look at her and understand that she has no idea.

She doesn't know what Lancaster is. She doesn't know what September means. She knows the sound of the fridge, the smell of sweet potato, the exact time to wake everyone up. That's her whole world, and it's a good one.

She'll be fine. She'll have people who love her, her garden, her mud. She'll be completely fine.

I'm the one who has to know the rest.