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KIRA

ONE YEAR AGO…

“M y kill! That sniper was mine, Rogue!” I laugh, because I’m not really mad. Not at him. Never at him.

“Too slow, Mischief.” His voice is deep and smooth, like good whiskey, I imagine. However, I’ve never actually developed a taste for the stuff. “You hesitated.”

“Did not.” I line up another shot, the familiar rush of playing with him flooding my system. It’s been over a year of this—night after night, game after game. Sometimes, I wonder if I keep playing just to hear his voice.

The kill count flashes on the screen. Another victory. Our fortieth this week.

“That’s how it’s done.” I stretch my arms overhead. My back cracks in three places. How long have we been playing? The darkness outside my window suggests hours.

“You’re getting better.” There’s pride in his tone, which makes my stomach flip in that stupid way I hate and crave simultaneously.

“I had a good teacher.” I swallow, gathering courage. “Hey, so... GamerCon is this month.”

His silence tells me everything before he even speaks.

“Mischief—”

“I know, I know. You’re busy. You’re not into crowds. You live too far away.”

“It’s complicated.”

It’s always complicated withRogue. After a year of late-night conversations about everything from childhood fears to conspiracy theories, I don’t even know what he looks like. There is no social media or video chats, just his voice and his presence in these digital worlds we inhabit.

The red flags are obvious. I’m not stupid—I’ve seen enough true crime documentaries to fill a semester course. A guy who refuses to video chat? Who dodges personal questions about his job beyond vague mentions of “tech”? Who never shares photos but somehow knows what I wore to my cousin’s wedding last month without me telling him?

I should have cut contact months ago. That’s what any reasonable person would do.

“We could just grab a coffee,” I persist, ignoring the warning bells. “One hour of real life. I promise not to be disappointed when you don’t look like Thor.”

He laughs, but it’s tighter than before. “Trust me, reality is overrated.”

“Says the man who knows what I look like.” I’d streamed enough for him to know every detail of my face. The imbalance sometimes bothers me, but then he’ll say something that makes me feel so seen that I forget why it matters.

“I know what makes you… You,” he says quietly. “You rage-quit when you’re hungry. I know you hum when you’re lining up a difficult shot. I know you better than people who see you every day.”

And that’s the problem. He does know me. Sometimes, it feels like he knows things about me I haven’t even told him. Like last week, when he asked if my headache was better—a headache I’d only mentioned to my mom on a private call. Or how he sent me a message checking if I was okay precisely five minutes after I’d had a meltdown over a work email.

Coincidences, I tell myself. They have to be.

We fall back into our rhythm, picking off enemies and calling out positions. The same hollow feeling I get after every failed attempt to meet him settles in my chest.

“Hostile on your six,” he says, voice steady as always.

I take the shot without responding, my enthusiasm deflated like a day-old birthday balloon.

After a few more rounds, I fake a yawn. “Think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“You sure? It’s only one a.m. Usually, I can’t drag you away until the birds start singing.”

He knows my patterns too well. It’s both comforting and unsettling. He never messages me when I’m in the shower, but always seems to text within minutes of me settling back at my desk. Or that he somehow knows which days I work late shifts without me updating my schedule.

“Yeah, just... tired, I guess.”

After we disconnect, I sit in the dim glow of my monitor, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. The quiet of my apartment presses in. My bedroom—with walls covered in gaming posters and action figures lining my shelves—is my sanctuary and sometimes my prison.

I’ve never felt so connected to someone who’s essentially a ghost. Rogue knows what music I listen to when I’m sad. He remembers which foods I’m allergic to. He can tell when I’ve had a bad day before I say a word.

Yet, I’ve never seen his face. Never touched his hand. Never confirmed he’s even real beyond that voice in my headset.

I glance at my webcam, and a chill runs through me. Is it supposed to have that green light? I could have sworn I turned it off after my last stream. I cover it with a sticky note—something I don’t usually do. The paranoia is probably ridiculous, but still.

I pull up GamerCon’s website, staring at the countdown clock. Ten days. I’ve been looking forward to it for months—my first major convention. I bought the outfit for cosplaying as Luna from Stellar Wars. I’ve saved up. Planned everything.

And stupidly, I’d built up this fantasy of finally meetingRoguethere.

My phone lights up with a notification. It’s fromGhostDaddy’sTikTok—another video posted. I tap it immediately, hungry for the distraction.

I wonder whatRoguewould think if he knew I followed Thirst Trap gaming accounts. Would he laugh? Judge me?

TheGhostDaddyvideo plays on my phone. A muscular guy dressed as Ghost from Call of Duty demonstrates combat moves in slow motion. The tight black shirt clings to his abs as he executes each precise movement. My stomach clenches when he turns to the camera and delivers Ghost’s signature line in a gravelly voice.

I press my thighs together, suddenly aware of how pathetic this is—getting hot and bothered over some anonymous TikTok cosplayer while lying alone in my bed at one in the morning.

My hand hovers over my waistband, butRogue’srejection echoes in my head. “Reality is overrated.” Easy for him to say. My reality is this—fantasizing about strangers on the internet because the one guy I connect with won’t even meet me for coffee.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, tossing my phone aside. The mood’s gone, anyway.

I grab my phone again and dialJenna. She answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Kira? What’s wrong? It’s after one.”

“He’s not coming to GamerCon,” I say, not bothering with hello. “Again.”

A rustling sound, like she’s sitting up in bed. “Rogue? The mystery man strikes again, huh?”

“I don’t get it, Jen. We talk every night. He knows everything about me. But he won’t even?—”

“Meet you in person? Sweetie, we’ve been over this.” Her voice softens. “Have you considered he might not be who he says he is?”

I stare at my ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars I put up freshman year faded to dull yellow patches. “You think he’s some fifty-year-old creep?”

“Or married. Or just... not ready for whatever this is to be real.”

“I’ve thought about all that,” I admit, my voice smaller than I’d like. “Sometimes I get this weird feeling he knows more about me than he should. Like he’s stalking me.” I laugh nervously. “God, that sounds so paranoid when I say it out loud.”

“It’s not paranoid,”Jennasays firmly. “It’s your instincts talking. You should listen to them.”

I roll onto my side, curling around my phone like a lifeline. “Why am I so hung up on someone who’s basically a voice and a Gamertag?”

“Because you’re a romantic who lives half her life in virtual worlds?”Jennasuggests. “Look, GamerCon will be amazing with or without your internet boyfriend. We’ll have so much fun you won’t even think about him.”

“You’re right.” I sigh, lettingJenna’spractical wisdom wash over me. “I’m building this fantasy around someone who won’t even turn on his webcam.”

“Exactly. For all you know, Rogue could be a fourteen-year-old prodigy or using a voice modulator.”

I laugh despite myself. “God, don’t even joke about that. I’ve told him things I’ve never told anyone.”

“You deserve someone who shows up, not just logs in.”Jennayawns, but I can tell she’s fully awake now. “GamerCon is going to be epic. The cosplay competition alone will be worth the ticket price.”

The knot in my chest loosens a little. “Speaking of cosplay, how’s your Tracer costume coming along?”

“Almost done! Found these yellow leggings that don’t make my butt look weird. The chronal accelerator thing was a nightmare, though. Three failed attempts before I got the glow right.”

“Send pics!” I shift to sit cross-legged on my bed, already feeling better. This is why I love Jenna—she never lets me wallow.

“Tomorrow. It’s sprawled across my living room in pieces. What about your Luna? Still doing the galaxy hair?”

“Yeah, I got this temporary deep blue dye with silver specks. Tested it on a hair extension, and it looks cosmic as hell.” My excitement bubbles back up. “And I found these contacts that make my eyes look like they have stars in them.”

“You’re going all out! Any progress on the light sword?”

“It’s a plasma blade,” I correct automatically. “And yes, I finally got the LED sequence right. It pulses from blue to purple just like in the game.”

Jennalaughs. “Only you would spend three weeks programming LEDs to match a fictional weapon.”

“Says the girl who hand-stitched leather accents onto her goggles.”

“Touché.” She pauses. “Feel better?”

I realize I do. The sting ofRogue’srejection is still there, but duller now. “Yeah. Thanks for talking me down. Night, Jen. Love you.”

“Love you too. Try to sleep, okay? Real life awaits in the morning.”

I end the call and toss my phone beside me on the bed. She’s right, as usual. Real life. The thingRogueseems so determined to avoid.

With a sigh, I drag myself up and shuffle to my dresser. My reflection in the mirror looks tired—dark circles under my eyes from too many late-night gaming sessions. I pull out my favorite sleep shirt—oversized, soft, with a faded Stellar Wars logo across the chest—and a pair of shorts.

Before changing, I quickly scan my bedroom, checking corners and shelves. Another paranoid habit I’ve developed lately.Jennawould laugh if she knew I sometimes check for hidden cameras. Still, after some ofRogue’s eerily accurate comments about my apartment, I can’t help it.

The cool night air raises goosebumps on my skin as I change. My gaming chair sits empty, the monitor’s standby light blinking like a distant star. For a moment, I can almost hearRogue’svoice coming from my headset: “One more round. Just one more.”

I brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and return to bed. My sheets are cool against my legs as I slide under the covers. I should be exhausted—it’s almost two a.m. now—but my mind refuses to power down.

What doesRoguelook like? The question circles in my head like a loading icon. Is he tall? Short? Young? Old? Does he have tattoos likeGhostDaddy? Is his laugh as warm in person as it sounds through my headset?

I roll onto my side, punching my pillow. This is ridiculous. He’s just a gamer I met online—one of thousands. Yet somehow, he’s become this presence in my life, this voice that cuts through everything else.

“Reality is overrated.” His words replay in my mind. Is his reality so terrible that he can’t share even a glimpse of it with me? Or am I the one building castles in the digital sand, assigning depth to someone who might just see me as a convenient teammate?

Sleep remains just out of reach. In that twilight state between waking and dreaming, I imagine meeting him at GamerCon—turning around to find his eyes on me, knowing me instantly. Would I recognize something in his eyes? Some echo of the connection I feel when we play?

It’s a fantasy, and I know it. But as consciousness slips away, I can’t help clinging to it.