Chapter Text
My board is shit. Chaos, unbalanced, and utter shit. Each fight I was hoping… praying that somehow the synergy of my team would outmaneuver the rest, but frankly, I was wrong. I’m always wrong. My front line gets obliterated in seconds, giving my back line no chance to even make any sort of damage.
I’m a mess. This game is a mess. Correction, this game is the depths of my despair.
Then I'm finished. My last battle ends in a loss, and it sings deeply. Before the final blow, the game switches to a cut-screen of my opponents tactician executing me on the spot. It's like a punch to the gut, as frustration and embarrassment implode throughout my body.
“This game is rigged. Actually rigged,” I huff, pushing the blanket falling around my shoulders down. My room’s dim, lit only by the screen, and the irritation is heavy in my voice.
A familiar, comforting chuckle sounds through my headphones. “You say that every time you lose.”
“That’s because I always lose.”
“Pretty sure that’s a you problem.” His tone is warm, injected with a playful teasing. He’s still chuckling, and his words jab at my ego.
“Oh my god—remind me why I play with you again?”
“Because you like the sound of my voice.” He exaggerates his Australian accent on purpose, dragging the vowels in a smug little lilt.
It works. Goosebumps prickle along my arms like he’s in the room with me, whispering into my ear. I shift, tugging the blanket back over my shoulders, trying not to smile.
“…Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe I’m just here for moral support while you climb the ladder.”
“ Moral support? You rage-quit last week.”
“Because you sniped my item round!” I sit up straighter, heart pounding wildly. “You knew I needed that bow! That was personal.”
He knew what item I need, knew it would turn my game around and having it be the only item in the carousel, I insisted, even began to bargain my soul since it had been weeks since I was able to place myself above third place. And yet, even at my most vulnerable, Chris took what I so desperately needed and for that, I will never let him forget.
“Strategically borrowed,” he says, mockingly innocent. “That’s different.”
I can hear the grin in his voice. It makes my stomach twist in that unbearable way it always does—equal parts anger and butterflies. That stupid feeling that never really goes away with him. It lingers. It settles under my skin like it belongs there.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It never is with him. But it feels... weighted. Like there’s something more beneath the words we toss back and forth. Something I don’t poke at too hard.
I exhale slowly, defeated. “Last place… Again.”
“I noticed,” Chris says softly. “Still proud of you, though.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I mutter.
“Never. Just… prepping you for Korea. You know, so I can destroy you in person.”
“Yeah ok, maybe I just won’t go then.”
“Aw come on, don’t be that way!”
I fall quiet, fingers tapping idly at my keyboard. The glow of the screen feels too bright now, my thoughts louder than they should be. I glance at the corner of my monitor. It’s almost two in the morning.
“What time is it over there?”
“Almost 6PM. Isn’t it, like, 2AM for you?”
“Something like that.” I sigh.
“You’re insane,” Chris says. “Why are you even awake?”
“It's not that late,” I say. There’s a beat of silence. One of those long pauses where something unspoken swells between us. “Can’t believe I’ll be there in, like… what, three days?”
“Yeah. Kinda crazy, huh?” Chris replies.
“Yeah. Crazy.” The word feels intangible in my mouth. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this trip’s felt like a fantasy for so long, and now it's real. Too real. I’m going to see him.
Not just the filtered version of him—Discord-Chris, always a voice, always words on a screen. But the real one. The one I’ve caught glimpses of on camera. The one who teases me with that grin and makes my chest ache in ways I wish it wouldn’t. And I don’t know what scares me more–the idea that he’ll feel the same, or the idea that he won’t.
His voice gently cuts through the storm in my head. “You should go to bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You just lost so hard at TFT you’re emotionally numb. That doesn’t count.”
I laugh. Barely. “Maybe I just like talking to you.”
Another silence. This one stretches long enough that I wonder if I’ve said too much.
Then, quiet, almost serious, he says, “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
My heart stutters. I hate how easily he gets to me. I hate how good that makes me feel. It’s terrifying—how badly I want something more with him, when we haven’t even shared the same time zone.
“Fine.” I cave, peeling myself away from my desk. “Only because I have to look cute when I see you. Can’t show up with gamer eye bags.”
“You’ll look cute either way.”
It’s offhand. Casual. But it makes my throat go tight.
“Goodnight, Chris.”
“Night.”
click
The call ends and I’m left alone again, the room somehow colder without his voice filling it. I put my computer to sleep and drag myself to bed, the mattress creaking beneath me as I flop face-first into the pillow.
My body’s tired, but my mind won’t stop racing. I hug the blanket tighter, replaying the conversation in my head, every pause, every teasing comment. Every maybe that feels like more.
Then my phone buzzes beside me.
Chris: Don’t practice too hard. I need you to lose again when you get here 😌
The text makes me grin into the pillow, face burning. I reread it twice. Then again.
God. I am so in trouble.
My suitcase looks like it exploded. Clothes are everywhere. My bed, my floor, even on my computer desk. I keep going back and forth between “this is fine” and “I need to throw away my entire wardrobe and start over.”
"Okay,” I mutter, holding up two hoodies. One black, one gray. I want to bring both, but I already have overpacked and I don’t even know if half my clothes say ‘casually cute but also cool.’ I feel unbearable. Like I’ve gone completely insane.
I toss both on the bed and fall backward dramatically, phone in hand. The ceiling stares back at me, unbothered by my emotional spiral.
Chris’s last message is still open on my screen.
Don’t practice too hard. I need you to lose again when you get here 😌
I bite back a smile. My cheeks hurt from how often I’ve caught myself grinning at this stupid text. It’s not even that cute. It’s not. It’s barely flirting. But somehow, it still makes my chest feel like it’s about to burst.
I read it again. Then once more ... And, maybe six times. It’s whatever. I’m fine. But the thing is—there’s this anticipation lodged in my chest that won’t settle. I keep wondering what it’ll be like when I see him. Will his voice sound different without the headset? Will he laugh the same way in person? Will we click as easily as we do online? What if it’s awkward? What if I freeze? What if he realizes I’m not as cute in person as I am online?
I groan into my pillow and roll over. Packing should be simple. Clothes, toiletries, electronics, done. But somehow every decision feels loaded. Like choosing the wrong hoodie will ruin everything and sabotage my chance at anything more than online friends.
I open my notes app and read my packing list:
Passport - Check.
Charger - Check.
Headphones - Check.
Snacks - Check.
Clothes - Work in progress.
My finger hovers over the “delete all” button for a solid three seconds before I restrain myself. Deep breaths, I think to myself then toss another shirt in the suitcase and call it progress.
My phone buzzes. I jump. But it’s not Chris. Just a notification from the Discord server about wanting to join a raid. Great. Not helpful. I check his timezone. 6:38 AM. He should be waking up soon, right? He usually texts by now. Maybe he’s sleeping in. Maybe he forgot. Maybe—
The text bubble appears.
Chris: Morning, nerd. Packed yet or still emotionally spiraling?
I slap a hand over my face. He knows me too well. I type back quickly: Define “packed.”
Three dots. Typing. Then—
Chris: That bad, huh?
You: I’ve tried on five different outfits and they all betrayed me.
Chris: Oof. Fashion mutiny.
Chris: You’ll pull through though. You always do.
I pause, heart doing that annoying flutter thing. He always throws in those sincere lines when I least expect it.
You: Bold of you to assume I’m not just bringing a suitcase full of anxiety.
Chris: Joke’s on you. I’m reporting you for not packing.
Chris: Sounds about right. Just make sure you also pack that green hoodie.
My fingers freeze.
Chris: The one you wore on stream last month. You looked… cool in it.
Pause… Did he just say that? I reread it, twice. Maybe three times. Cool in it. Not hot. Not pretty. Just… cool. But somehow it lands heavier than all the other compliments I’ve heard before. I stare at the screen, overthinking.
You: I— (Delete.) Okay. I’ll bring it.
Chris: Nice.
Chris: Can’t wait to see you.
I set my phone down gently, suddenly too aware of how fast my heart's beating. Then I reach for the green hoodie, fold it carefully, like it means something. Maybe it does.
Two more days. Then I’ll see him. No screens. No headphones. Just… me and Chris. In real life. Breathing the same air. And maybe—maybe—this thing between us won’t just exist in messages and late-night calls anymore.
I close my eyes, holding the thought like a wish I don’t want to jinx.
Please let this be real.