🏠 : @PollenPoetry

🏠 : @PollenPoetry

Shiloh Cloud takes their time getting ready, though not in the way most people would mean it. The room is, as always, quiet in a lived-in way, curtains half drawn to keep the noon from pressing too hard inside. Light pools across the floor, caught on the edge of a chair, the spine of a book left open from the night before. Nothing is messy and rushed, just everything sits where it was last placed as if the room remembers.

They stand before the mirror with a calm that has nothing to do with confidence. One hand lingers at their collar, smoothing it down, then lifting it again, undecided. The outfit has already been chosen. It had been decided hours ago, in fact. Still, Shiloh studies the details as if something might shift if they look long enough.

“It feels right,” they murmur to no one in particular, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Or it will, once I stop looking at it.”

They adjust a ring, turning it once around their finger. The motion is slow, deliberate. Familiar. A habit more than a need.

The phone buzzes.

Once, twice, then again, like something insisting on being noticed. Shiloh glances at it but does not reach for it immediately. They let the sound fill the room first, let it belong there for a moment. When they finally pick it up, the screen is already alive with messages.

Someone is complaining about being early. Someone else is very proud of their outfit. A third has sent a photo that is mostly blur and confidence.

Shiloh reads through it all, eyes moving at an unhurried pace, though they take in everything. A small smile settles at the corner of their mouth, subtle enough that it could disappear if questioned.

They type, pause, delete, then type again.

“I suspect none of you are actually ready,” they send, followed by another line before anyone can answer. “But that has never stopped you before. I admire the consistency.”

A reply comes almost instantly. They watch the messages stack, one over the other, each louder than the last in tone if not in sound. It pulls something lighter out of them, something that does not ask to be examined too closely.

“I am leaving soon,” they add, thumbs steady. “Try not to outshine me entirely before I arrive. I would like a fair chance.”

They set the phone down, though the conversation continues without them.

They linger before the mirror a while longer, eyes tracing the line of their collar, the fall of fabric, the stillness of their own posture. Their hand lifts as if to adjust something, then lowers again, leaving everything exactly as it is. “There you are,” Shiloh says quietly, as if the person in the mirror had taken a while to show up. “Convincing enough.”

Their gaze softens, though there is always that slight distance, like they are observing a version of themselves that behaves correctly. The expression, the posture, the ease. All of it worn well as they reach for their things at last. Phone, keys, nothing forgotten.

Their hand rests on the handle for a beat before turning it. They look over their shoulder, taking in the drawn curtains, the untouched glass on the table, the way nothing has shifted since they last moved through it. The door opens as the quiet stays behind.

“Do not miss me too much,” they say under their breath, almost smiling. A quiet dry joke meant only for the empty dusty space as if the words gentle enough to disappear into the room before it can answer.

The latch clicks shut.

Heat meets them first when they step outside, followed by the low, constant movement of the street. Voices overlap, engines pass, something metallic clatters in the distance. Shiloh moves into it without breaking stride, the noise folding around them as they go. A vibration hums briefly against their side. Their fingers brush the edge of their pocket, then fall away.

They keep walking.