The Key to a Healthy Relationship

On my list of things I never want to experience again - right below violent diarrhea after eating spicy food - is waking up to a potentially dangerous feral wolf-girl leaning over me, fangs glistening.

For one horrifying second, I’m certain I’m about to be eaten alive. My heart rate skyrockets.

Then she notices I’m awake and pulls back.

I exhale shakily, drawing in a deep breath as the immediate certainty of having my throat torn out fades. The girl slips away toward the kitchen, and as I sit up, I hear two distinct sounds: fingernails tapping softly against metal, and a low, almost pitiful whine.

I turn my head.

She’s pawing at the fridge.

The meaning clicks instantly.

She’s hungry.

But she’s fully capable of opening doors. I’ve seen her do it. So why doesn’t she open the fridge?

I stand, my hands still trembling from the unfair wake-up, and approach carefully, making sure not to startle her. As I draw near, she backs away from the fridge, clasping her hands together in front of her chest as if in prayer. Her eyes meet mine - pleading, but also relieved.

Communication.

The fridge creaks softly as I open it, revealing shelves full of prepared meals. I like to cook in advance, freezing or refrigerating portions so I can spend more time researching and writing instead of worrying about food spoiling.

I gesture toward the open fridge.

“What do you want?”

She blinks at me.

Then whines again.

I sigh.

Decision-making it is.

I don’t yet have enough data to determine her favourite type of meat, but the chicken curry - yes, I know, an unusual breakfast choice - will be something new. She’s only ever eaten straight meat before. Vegetables and rice might confuse her.

That’s exactly what I want.

New stimuli mean reactions. Reactions mean data.

As I prepare the microwave, she backs away again, ears flattening slightly. The noise seems to unsettle her. Still, once it finishes, I divide the meal into two bowls and place them on the table.

Now for the next test.

Does she understand eating at a table?

I sit down across from the empty chair and begin eating without waiting. If she watches me, it might be enough.

It is.

After a brief hesitation, she pulls out the chair opposite me and sits down. I pretend not to stare as she carefully picks up her spoon. She watches my movements closely, then imitates them, awkward but precise.

The spoon pauses just before her lips.

She sniffs it once.

Twice.

Then eats.

She freezes.

A spike of panic shoots through me. I don’t actually know what she is. Did something in the curry cause a reaction? Paralysis? Toxicity?

Then she swallows.

And immediately scoops up another spoonful.

And another.

She eats faster than I can follow, barely chewing, inhaling the food with an intensity that borders on alarming. I almost raise a hand to slow her down - then stop myself. Hand signals won’t mean anything to her yet.

It’s hard to eat normally while she’s devouring her meal like that, but relief settles in my chest.

She likes it.

I reach for my laptop, briefly pausing my own meal to jot down two notes:
Likes chicken curry.
Demonstrates rapid observational learning.

My gaze drifts back to the fridge.

She wasn’t just hungry. She was trying to tell me.

She’s smart enough to invent methods of communication when none exist.

And that makes my thoughts spiral forward.

Could she learn to speak?

To read?

To write?

By the time I finish typing, over half of her meal is gone. I take another spoonful of my own, but my mind is already elsewhere.

If she doesn’t leave…

I know exactly what I want to try next.

The girl’s large eyes follow my movement as I point to myself.

“Nayden.”

She blinks.

I try again.

“My name is Nayden.”

She stares at me for a moment, ears twitching. Then, with incredible care, she quietly speaks her first word.

“Nayden.”

I smile and nod.

“That’s right.”

She studies my face intently, sitting just like I am on the floor with her legs crossed. After a second, she mimics my expression, lips pulling into an awkward imitation of a smile.

My heart thumps.

She’s very pretty when she smiles.

I force the thought away immediately. She’s a wolf. Or at least, she’s supposed to be.

Still, the fact remains - she understands something. Not meaning, not context, but structure. My best guess is that she’s spent a long time around humans, listening. Picking things up through repetition alone. She doesn’t know what words mean, but she knows that words mean something.

That’s enough to start.

I decided to begin with something simple. Something easy to practice.

My name.

Slowly, her arm lifts. She points a small finger at me, tilting her head as her smile widens.

“Nayden! Kill yourself!”

My heart stutters.

It takes a full second for my brain to catch up and realize she has no idea what she just said.

Teenagers. She must have been listening to teenagers.

I shake my head.

“No.”

She blinks, her finger lowering as confusion washes over her face. Her ears droop slightly - an instinctive response. She understands that “no” isn’t good.

“No?” she repeats softly.

I continue shaking my head. So far, she’s shown she responds better to physical cues than verbal explanation.

“No kill yourself. Bad.”

She stiffens, then speaks again, slower this time.

“No Nayden kill yourself.”

I nod immediately, smiling.

“Only Nayden.”

Her tail thumps against the floor, picking up on my positive tone.

“Only Nayden.”

Whether she’s simply copying or actually assembling meaning from the pieces I’m giving her, I can’t tell. And there’s no way to know without continuing.

But she can speak.

That alone is enough.

I’m going to teach this cryptid how to communicate using words - and, at the same time, prove that she exists.

On my laptop, beside my notes document, are pages and pages of research on language acquisition. Methods for teaching communication from scratch. Ironically, a few AI chat logs discussing how best to explain meaning itself.

All of it points to the same conclusion.

Picture books.

But first, I had to be sure she could vocalize words at all.

I take a deep breath as she continues smiling at me, small fangs peeking between her lips.

Now for the book.

I gently slide it between us.

I don’t know what I expected. Sniffing. Pawing. Confusion.

I was not prepared for her ears to perk up as she snatched the book away, flipped it open-

-and began reading as if she’d been doing it her entire life.