The first time it happened, I mistook it for allergies. A peculiar tingling along my cheekbones during the full moon, nothing more. But when I woke up the next morning and found actual whiskers sprouting from my face like delicate antennas, I knew something extraordinary had begun. They were golden brown with black tips. Unmistakably feline, unmistakably not mine. The bathroom mirror reflected familiar eyes, but something wild flickered behind them now. Something patient and calculating, entirely unlike me. I ran trembling fingers across them, expecting a brittle texture, but they flexed and twitched in response to my touch. Unfamiliar sensations rippling through my nerve endings. I called in sick to work, closed the curtains, and spent the day alternating between panic and fascination as I watched how they quivered when I sensed movement beyond my walls.

By the third full moon, the changes had intensified. Tufts of russet fur now sprouted along my ears and jawline, my canines had lengthened to sharp points, and most alarming of all, my pupils had elongated into vertical slits that caught the light in eerie golden reflections. My hearing had become unbearably sharp. The hum of the refrigerator roared in my ears and the rustle of a stray cat in the alley was a thunderous interruption. I had convinced my job to let me work remotely. I sent a silent apology to my dear dead grandmother for inflicting her with crippling gout, which required me to help her.

My outside wasn’t the only thing changing. Hunger gnawed at my gut. The salads that usually sated my hunger made my stomach roll. I craved meat. Raw meat. Attempting to cling to my humanity, I seared steaks in a pan for thirty seconds before sinking my teeth into the fibrous tissue that oozed dark red.

One night, I surrendered to the overwhelming urge to roam and slipped out my back door. It was two a.m. when I padded out the door. Clothing set my nerves on fire, so I stripped down to a tank top and a pair of shorts. No need for shoes. My feet, no, my paws, made no sound as I prowled around my familiar neighborhood. What had been ordinary was now a cacophony of scents, sounds, and movements.

The streets soon gave way to forest paths as I followed an invisible thread, pulling me deeper into the woods. My newfound instincts guided me toward something that called to me with a silent frequency my human ears had never detected. A rustle in the leaves made me still. My nose twitched, and I sensed the heartbeat of a fieldmouse. I could feel its fear and a part of me was exhilarated and wanted to pounce, while the human side of me forced my paws to continue their journey.

Then I saw him. A muscular silhouette posed on a fallen log ahead. His tawny fur dappled by moonlight, and distinctive, black-tipped ears tufted and alert. The characteristic short, bobbed tail that gave his species its name twitched slightly as he assessed me. His eyes mirrored what I was becoming. I stopped, fearful and unsure. Was I welcome? Or was this transformation only in my mind–the delusions of a woman overwhelmed by life and looking for a way to escape through fantasy? He stepped down from the log with slow, silent precision, each paw finding the perfect position on the forest floor. My whiskers quivered in anticipation and fear.

We stood facing each other. Two creatures sharing a language older than words. His golden eyes met mine without fear, only acknowledgement. In that moment, as we stared at each other, I finally understood. My borrowed whiskers weren’t a curse, but an invitation to remember what humanity had forgotten. The wild isn’t separate from us. It lies dormant, deep within our bones.

He blinked, and before I could move closer, he slipped into the darkness, leaving me alone with my new understanding. The whiskers were never borrowed. They were mine to reclaim.