Their paws touched. Their eyes met. I could feel the sudden silence, the sudden heat of the moment. I could sense their hearts leaping in a giddy whirl. He could have been that tom… but I wasn't that she-cat.
I had to constantly remind myself not to dream too far… not to loose sight of who I was. After all, I was a medicine cat. I wasn't allowed remember the rush of joy I felt when I brushed by his pelt in his dreams. Even if he was that tom, I wasn't that she-cat.
Every so often, I would visit him in his dreams, and we'd steal to the land of what might have been if I had lived. But it didn't soften the ache we felt when reality set back in. He was alive. I was dead.
I saw her smile at him. She was alive; she won his heart. Ginger fur and pale green eyes were obviously his preference—not tortoiseshell with amber eyes. Just another reason why I could never be his she-cat.
No, don't wish. Don't start. Wishing only wounds the heart. Even if I had lived, I was born to be a medicine cat. And he was perfectly happy with his mate. He loved her with all of his heart—and I wasn't that she-cat.