Fluffy Fraud

I arrived at the hotel with high hopes.
A mini fridge. A vending machine. Possibly a complimentary cookie.
And then I saw them.

The pillows.
Overstuffed. Suspiciously puffy.
Fluffier than trust should be.

My Pillow at Home

• Knows the shape of my ear.

• Smells faintly of lavender and cookie crumbs.

• Has never betrayed me with sudden neck angles.
  
  

We have history.
We have softness chemistry.
We have bonded.

The Hotel Pillow

• Too tall.

• Too springy.

• Made a whoomp sound that felt emotionally dishonest.
  
  

I tried stacking one. Then two. Then none.
Mini Blue watched silently from the mini armchair.
Pandy offered to switch. I accused him of espionage.

Night One

I tossed.
I turned.
I ate a cookie in the dark and used a bathrobe as a pillow.
I told myself this wasn’t personal.
But the pillow knew.

Night Two

I folded it in half.
Then in thirds.
Then emotionally.

Pandy suggested I call the front desk for a different pillow.
I said I wasn’t ready for that kind of confrontation.

Final Thoughts

No, hotel pillows aren’t betrayal.
They’re just… different fluff.
Fluff without context. Fluff without memory.

But when I get home—
I will whisper apologies to my real pillow.
And I will mean them.