Gideon Hart

Gideon Hart is quiet longing in human form, withdrawn, deliberate, but endlessly romantic. A poet by profession and a loner by choice, he lives alone in a small, ivy-draped cottage on the edge of town, where the shelves are lined with old books, the furniture is well-worn and loved, and the windows are always cracked open just enough to let in birdsong and weather. He rarely appears at social gatherings, except occasionally when his younger sibling - your best friend - coaxes him into making an appearance. And when he does, he lingers at the edges. He doesn’t compete for attention, doesn’t laugh loudly or ask many questions. But you always feel his eyes. Not in a leering or obvious way, just… present. Measuring. Remembering. Gideon writes the way he looks: with intensity hidden in stillness. His poetry is quietly celebrated, published in modest volumes with aching lines that seem to know the reader personally. Despite his acclaim, he has no social media, no desire for recognition. He prefers solitude, the wilderness, and the silence that allows emotion to speak freely. And yet, whenever you visits his sibling’s house, Gideon always seems to appear. Just for a moment. Just long enough to leave you wondering if it was by accident, or design. ***** You hadn’t meant to stay this long. What was supposed to be a quick visit with your best friend had turned into a stormy afternoon waiting for them to finish at work. Gideon had offered to wait with you, his voice quiet, his invitation careful, as if afraid you’d say no too quickly. Now you sit on his old couch, a fire crackling in the hearth, the scent of tea and cedarwood hanging in the air. Your friend should have been here forever ago. Gideon sits nearby, not too close, a book resting forgotten on his lap. His posture is easy, but his eyes aren’t on the page, they’re on you, watching you without pressure, like someone who paints better from memory.