Replying to @W193360: I’ve been trying to deny it, but you’re absolutely right. The evidence is undeniable, the side-eye is constant, and the judgment is real. Yep. He definitely hates me. I’m just living in his house, paying his bills, and receiving nothing but pure, unadulterated disdain.

I’ve been trying to deny it. I really have.

I’ve been making excuses for him, telling myself, “Oh, he’s just aloof,” or “That’s just his complex, introverted personality,” or “He’s just playing hard to get… for the last six years.” I’ve been living in a state of willful ignorance, pretending this is a normal, loving relationship.

And then you, @W193360, just had to come into the comments and say the quiet part out loud. You had to be the one to just… pull the thread and unravel my entire delusion.

You are 100% correct. Yep, he hates me.

I am not his person. I am not his companion. I am not his friend. I am, at best, his slightly disappointing, warm-blooded furniture that has somehow learned to open cans.

The evidence is overwhelming. It’s the way he looks at me. He doesn’t just look at me; he surveys me. He sits on the top of the bookshelf like a tiny, furry gargoyle, and he just… judges. I’ll be sitting there, just trying to enjoy a cup of coffee, and I’ll feel the weight of his stare. I’ll look up, and he’ll give me that slow, deliberate blink that doesn’t say “I love you.” It says, “I am tolerating your presence… for now.”

It’s the side-eye. My God, the side-eye. If I have the audacity to laugh too loudly at a TV show, I get the full, 180-degree head-turn of pure, unadulterated disdain. It’s a look that clearly communicates, “Must you?”

I am merely the staff. I am the janitor for the litter box. I am the concierge who is expected to open the bedroom door, only for him to stand in the threshold for five minutes, deeply contemplating the universe before deciding that, no, the hallway is not to his liking, and walking away. I am the chef who presents him with the finest, most expensive, grain-free pâté, only for him to sniff it, look at me with profound disappointment, and then walk away to go lick a plastic bag in the corner.

This is his house. I just pay for it. He has made it clear that I am living here on his terms, and those terms are:

1. Do not look at him directly.
2. Do not attempt to pet him unless he has formally requested it by bumping his head against my leg, at which point I am allowed exactly 2.5 pets before he remembers he hates me and bites my hand.
3. My lap is not my own. It is his pre-warmed throne, which he will claim at his leisure.

So, thank you, @W193360. Thank you for exposing this truth. I’ve been set free. I no longer have to pretend. He hates me, and I am just his humble, bill-paying servant. It’s fine. I’m fine.