I didn’t give birth to you,
but tell me why my heart learned
a new shape
the moment you arrived.

Miyu—
you are the quiet authority of a queen
who pretends she doesn’t care
but always knows where I am.
You supervise naps.
You judge my life choices from high places.
Your love is subtle,
the kind that says,
I’m here. Don’t make it weird.

Luna—
you are the moon in constant motion.
All chaos and curiosity,
all sudden zooms and soft landings.
You love loudly,
with paws, whiskers, and absolute certainty.
You trust the world
because you believe it will catch you—
and somehow, it always does.

Together, you are balance.
Day and night.
Stillness and spark.
One of you reminds me to breathe.
The other reminds me to laugh
at the things I take too seriously.

You follow me from room to room
like I might disappear
without proper supervision.
You nap when I work,
work when I sleep,
and somehow run my household
without paying rent.

You don’t ask me how my day was,
but you know.
You curl into the places
where the weight sits.
You teach me, daily,
that love doesn’t need language—
only presence.

Miyu and Luna,
my soft constants,
my four-legged grounding spells.
I may have chosen you,
but you chose me back—
and that is the kind of love
that feels like family.