The Boy with the Cloud.
Ever met someone who unsettled you before they even spoke?A face unfamiliar, yet strangely significant. They slip into your life like a recurring dream—appearing in hallways, in fragments of conversation, in places they shouldn’t be. And though you tell yourself it’s coincidence, a small part of you wonders if something else is at play. If the universe has stitched your stories together in ways you’re only beginning to understand.
His arrival wasn’t foretold in any prehistoric cave painting, nor was it heralded by some mind-boggling miracle. Maybe it was a clerical error from the heavens. Or a prank from the underworld. The gods, amused, watching one mortal unravel. That’s how Tora felt: like the punchline to a cosmic joke.
He wasn’t Atlas Corrigan, he wasn’t a Greek god, and he certainly wasn’t her type. Still, girls fawned over him. That swagger, that chaos. A magnetic storm of charisma, narcissism, and oddly-placed charm. She wasn’t buying it. But clearly, life had other plans.
Suddenly they were paired on every assignment. No one remembered how it started. Tora didn’t either. Maybe it didn’t matter. Her grades did. And while she couldn’t count on people to stay, she could count on doing what she had to. Even if it meant enduring him. Maybe there was a silver lining in this nightmarish playbook, it just had to show itself, sooner rather than later. And now for their latest task: collect field data on local flora and fauna in the woods surrounding their college.
It was halfway through their trek when she asked, “What’s with your cloud?”
Yes, the boy had a cloud. Not a metaphor. Not a mood. A real cloud. Floating just above his head, soft and mysterious like the ones she used to stare at as a child. He ignored her and launched into the usual small talk. Where was she from? Siblings? Favourite color? But even as he talked, she felt scrutinised—like he was mapping her out through harmless questions.
Then came the scream—piercing and distant, yet all too real. Mr. Cloud stiffened, then attempted to play the brave protector, vowing to protect her. She rolled her eyes. They should have turned back immediately, but instead, they continued walking forward. It was as if all those horror movies hadn’t gotten through to them that they should be moving away from danger, not toward it!
As they pressed deeper into the woods, an odd crow began following them. It didn’t bother her. Not yet. But something else did. The clouds were closer now. The trees? Not trees anymore. They looked like statues. Eroded. Watching.
This boy, she thought, this walking disruption, was going to be the end of her. She knew it. She had known it when he first walked into her life. When she first refused to look at him as she rushed past her in her classroom. When she now refused to turn around.
He called to her. She ignored him.
“The crow’s gone,” he said.
“What?”
“I said the crow’s gone. What’s wrong with you?”
He was always asking that. As if he expected her to be broken. As if he knew something she didn’t. But he was right: the crow had vanished. So had every sound in the woods. They were in a vacuum. Her mouth opened to speak—to question it all—but he was already walking away, belting Bohemian Rhapsody into the underbrush.
She didn’t follow.
Tora walked alone. The air thick. Her mind, flooded. Then the scream returned. Closer. Bloodcurdling.
Then silence.
There he was. The boy with the cloud. Lying on the ground. His eyes wide. His face twisted. Not breathing.
No blood. No wounds. Just stillness.
A crow perched above, watching.
A tiger padded into view. Large. Quiet. It circled the body. Sniffed. Grunted.
And then it turned and walked away into the woods, without looking back.
Tora didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She didn’t cry.
Because the tiger didn’t need to look back. And neither did she.
Now, it fit.
Maybe the mistake wasn’t trusting the boy. Or ignoring the crow. Or walking into the woods.
Maybe the only mistake was thinking she wasn’t still learning to walk in her other skin.
She glanced once at the boy's still form. Then disappeared, soundlessly, into the trees, her stride already shifting into something more silent, more certain, more feline.
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