Chapter Text
Snow had begun to fall in a gradual crescendo, gathering atop the bus shelter and blanketing the ground in heaps. The vehicles on the road in front of you, all lined up and packed in both lanes, steadily plodded through the traffic. Rush hour was supposed to end hours ago, but the sudden snowfall brought everything to a snail’s pace. It seemed you wouldn’t be getting home anytime soon.
You were warm enough, wrapped in layers that hugged your form, but no matter how down-like the fabric felt, there was no comfort in the way it clung to your skin. Despite the fleece compressing around you like a warm embrace, you still felt cold.
You had just finished your shift at the studio. Your bones creaked, and a pounding headache bloomed behind your eyes. It had been a long day spent teaching the same lesson over and over. And although repetition usually soothed you, this time it bored you to hell.
You loved being an art teacher. Although it wasn’t a childhood dream to lead a classroom, it still aligned with your interests. It was a career you genuinely wanted to nurture, hoping to maybe one day teach at a college and earn a more stable income. Teaching gives you a purpose and a meaning, and you enjoy the fulfillment you feel every time a student thanks you for sharing exciting techniques involving pottery, shading, and painting. You appreciate the wonder evident in their faces, their eyes lighting up whenever they learn something new.
However, despite the effort and patience you show your students, you often feel irate and frustrated. Even when your students called you their second mom, something that should’ve felt sweet enough to rot your teeth, or at least tug at your heartstrings, you often felt nothing at all. It wasn't that your kindness was just for show; you truly cared for your students and the people around you. But there were days when empathy felt like a gruelling task you couldn’t carry. And you often wondered why you were working there in the first place.
Being a teacher was already emotionally draining, but what made it worse was your boss’s demanding and sometimes demeaning behaviour. She seemed more focused on lining her pockets than acknowledging the effort you put into the studio, overworking you day and night without so much as a verbal thank-you. Her version of gratitude was raising your wages every semester, and while that helped pay for your student loans and household bills, what you really needed was acknowledgment that you were human, that you needed support. Words of affirmation were rare, and on the few occasions you did hear them, you barely believed them, too acquainted with the harshness of self-doubt. The money was nice, but it was also the reason you stayed at a job you loved, even though your boss was someone you hated. With your wage steadily increasing, you couldn’t just walk away, especially not when you needed the money. So, you kept taking the brunt of it all, day by day, convincing yourself that maybe this was the universe testing you. Even though deep down, you knew this wasn’t an obstacle you had to push through. It was mistreatment. Plain and simple.
You waited for the bus to take you home, hoping you’d find a moment to relax. But relaxation rarely came. Your body was too familiar with exhaustion, too wired from always being on edge. Even when you lie down at night, rest doesn’t follow. You were always anxious, as if at any given moment, something terrible might happen.
These nights always ended the same: you slipped into autopilot, drifting through life with your thoughts buzzing in your head. In fact, you’d been on autopilot for a long time now. You weren’t robotic in the physical sense, but mentally, you were just not there. Your body was present, but everything else, everything around you, passed like a fleeting trail of lights.
You weren’t sure when it started. Maybe it was a gradual thing, sneaking in over the years. Perhaps it began when your mother whisked you away, uprooting you from the home you grew up in and throwing you into a land too cold, too far, and too unfamiliar from what you knew.
Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. Your mother didn’t just decide to take her children and move away. You and your sibling were already young adults when it happened. You always knew the time would come since she mentioned it during her weekly calls, but you didn’t expect the years to fly by so quickly.
You find it bizarre how, one day, you were laughing and hanging out with your best friends, enjoying your youth, and waking up to your grandmother’s incredible cooking. And then the next day, you were boarding a plane.
Adjustment didn’t come easily. As time passed, everything became increasingly alien. One moment you were carefree; the next, you were thrust into a world you didn’t recognize. And even though the place you now call home was considered a cultural melting pot, amongst others living in the same predicament, you still felt like an outsider. You were uprooted, like you were constantly tumbling while the cruel universe shouted "Timber!" every time you fell, and everyone else just stood around, watching, pointing and laughing.
It wasn’t just the place that felt unfamiliar. Everything about your new life seemed to lack the closeness you once had. You and your sibling were raised by maternal relatives in a village-like environment, part of a large, compound-style household. After your father had upped and left, your mother had no choice but to work overseas to support the family from afar. It’s not that your relatives couldn’t help; they could, but they had families of their own to take care of. And your mother refused to ask for help, not out of pride but as an act of courage. What better way to show someone who abandoned their family that they could survive just fine without them? “I don’t need anyone,” she used to say.
You admired your mother’s strength growing up, believing that kind of resilience would shield you from temptation or be a stepping stone to help you reach your goals. And it did for a while; you always focused on your studies, maintained a good image, earned good grades as a star student, listened to and showed respect to your elders, just as the good daughter you were raised to be. But the older you got, the harder it became to echo the very words you once lived by. You wished you could say the same things to yourself, that you didn’t need anyone. But the basic human need to be loved and wanted always ruled over your judgment, leaving you yearning for someone to fill the vast chasm in your heart.
Maybe that’s why you started dating in the first place, to keep the loneliness at bay. You tried meeting people within your own culture at first; it felt familiar, safe, and uncomplicated. But even then, things had a way of falling apart once vulnerability entered the picture. As soon as it got real, they left. Maybe you were too emotional, too impulsive. Maybe just a little bit too much.
It was an unfortunate cycle, a pattern which always seemed to occur in the summer: a guy would waltz their way into your life and ask you out, and you’d fall for him. It would become a summer filled with passion, but once the weather cooled and everything wilted away, the spark died too. “Sorry it didn’t work out,” they would say, hoping to remain friends. But you didn’t feel inclined to keep in touch; why would you? They were the ones who left.
Eventually, you stopped looking. What’s the point of trying to find love when people would leave in the end? You were already standing on shaky ground, used to the instability of it all. You figured there was no way you’d be able to find something solid, something that could offer absolute constancy, when you probably never deserved any of it in the first place. This became your mantra, a bitter taste that lingered in your senses. It was all you knew for a long time.
Until one day, you met another man who changed your world. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t fall again, but loneliness has a way of taking over. Heart over mind, that was how you functioned.
He was different from the others in many ways. He was confident yet exuded an aura of warmth. You fell head over heels with him, and he with you. You were worried at first since the way you met fit the pattern, but he wasn’t just another summer fling. He was kind and attentive, everything you thought you deserved.
For a while, it felt like magic. You confided in him in every way, and he would gladly lend an ear when you were troubled. He showed you things you’d never seen before, and made you feel things you had only imagined in your dreams. Things that you could only picture in your head when you’re alone in bed, at night, left to your own devices.
He seemed to be the perfect man for you. You thought he was the one. The conversation about marriage and having kids happened so suddenly. Everything was moving too fast, and it should’ve been a red flag so early on. Still, the excitement blinded you, and it felt like things were starting to fall into place, as it should be…
... Right up until the truth finally surfaced, and you found yourself the one walking away.
He hadn’t stayed because he loved you, he’d stayed because you were “exotic,” as he put it. You were utterly disgusted. What you thought was love — honest and tender — had been reduced to a shallow fascination, a fetish masked by false intimacy.
You started to wonder if you were fundamentally unlovable, as if something about you scared people off, or worse, that you only ever reeled them in for the idea of who you were. The loss wasn’t just of him; it was of belief. In yourself, in love, and in everything.
Sadness slithers in like a jagged vine, slowly wrapping around your body and leaving lacerations in its wake. When it reaches your throat, it constricts, not enough to suffocate you, but just enough to make every breath feel laborious. You often wonder when it will finally come to an end. Thoughts of ending it all frequently cross your mind, yet you remain too fearful of the consequences, indoctrinated by the religion of your upbringing. The hands of faith clasp you, not in comfort but in restraint, tethering you to this meagre life. But if, for some reason, the hands of fate ever pluck you away, you might not be able to resist.
It was hard living like this. You’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the pounding ache in your chest louder than your heartbeat. The concept of peace was foreign to you. You constantly live in a state of survival mode, day and night; it's utterly exhausting.
It’s not like you never tried to reach out, but even those closest to you couldn’t understand the weight you carried or the fuzzy static looming over your head. Your mother meant well, but her advice was often tone-deaf. You had attempted countless times to connect with a God who, according to your mother, listens and eases suffering. You’ve lost count of how many times you cried out, "PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!" but it never felt like anyone was ever there.
Due to the disconnect, your faith began to falter over the years. What stung the most was when your mother, still well-meaning, implied that maybe you weren’t trying hard enough, that you weren’t praying enough. That cut deep, and it hurt more ways than one, to be blamed for things you have no control over. Little by little, you began to drift further away from the comfort you once sought. You weren’t trying to look for salvation; you just wanted the ache in your chest to stop so you could breathe normally for once.
You’d been pouring from an empty cup this whole time, but despite the emptiness, you persevered and kept going. There’s no other way but to move forward. You might cry every now and then, if you still had any tears to spare. It was just the way you were raised, and a way to cope: letting it out, wiping the tears away, picking up the pieces, and then moving on.
Despite the looming cloud ahead, not everything was bleak. You were lucky, especially with the bond you shared with your grandmother. Despite coming from a culture that rarely acknowledges feelings, and being born into a generation far removed from yours, she was patient. Whenever you were in trouble, she encouraged you to speak up and ask for help. She was your rock, someone who grounded you, and you appreciated her deeply.
That foundation, tight-knit and rooted in love, only made you more homesick, and the distance between you two even greater. The phone calls will have to suffice, but they won’t ever replace the warm hugs you took for granted all these years. One day, you might be able to fly home, and everything will be alright again. But it was all wishful thinking.
With those thoughts swirling in your muddled brain, the bus ride home passed in a blur.
You barely registered the automated voice announcing your stop, nearly missing it. In a panic, your hand shot up to press the stop button, and the bus driver halted just in time. When you finally stepped off, the night had deepened. What was supposed to be an almost two-hour commute had slipped by in the blink of an eye. The streets were dim and quiet now, a stark contrast to the daytime buzz of the neighbourhood.
You walked the familiar ten-minute route home, heading toward the side entrance that led down to the basement. You should be feeling relieved now that you’re home, but home didn’t always feel like a safe space. A new kind of anxiety settled in your chest as you opened the door to the place you shared with your family.
You’d lived in this city for a long time, and yet no matter how much all three of you saved, it was never enough to move somewhere more livable. Back home, distant relatives assumed you were filthy rich, and while yes, you had started a new life in a first-world country, that didn’t mean you were making it.
Despite earning a decent hourly wage, you were only teaching part-time, and money was tight. You could’ve picked up another job, but your mother always insisted it wasn’t necessary, that everything was fine even though it wasn’t. She would always say that you could try , but she would often make comments and persuade you not to go forth with your plans. Her reasons may vary from time to time, but it was always the same thing: “No.”
Regardless of how close you two had grown over the years and making up for lost time, you didn’t quite understand why she would always decline any help or stop you from doing things that would benefit you. Whether she meant to or not, her constant disapproval was a subtle kind of manipulation, one that made you doubt your instincts. With every “no,” you were left at a standstill. You were an adult, for fuck’s sake, yet you still found yourself seeking her approval. Every time she shuts you down, you clamp up, becoming a prisoner of your own mind.
You ate dinner at your desk, the usual routine, since eating together, like you used to back home, felt like a distant memory. It had been a really long time since you’d sat down for a meal as a family. It was pitiful that you no longer yearn for the quality time you once enjoyed as a kid, surrounded by relatives at the dinner table, sharing stories in between bites.
Nowadays, you prefer to eat alone in silence. Dinner had become a confessional, a place where problems were served as the main course, often ruining your appetite to a point where you’d rather just dig yourself a hole and let the earth consume you. It’s not that you were apathetic, but you were tired of everyone constantly talking down to you and saying, “How would you know? You don’t know the work I do” , every time you offer a solution or comfort. It was a cycle of issues, repeating day and night, and you want no part of it when you are drowning in your own problems. Work and life had been overwhelming enough; you didn’t want to add anything else on your plate, or everything would spill over until you couldn’t take it anymore.
So, when the computer screen lit up in front of you and the low hum of the room faded into the background, you let the world fall away, until it almost felt like no one else existed.
It was around 10 p.m., and the rest of the house was quiet; everyone else had gone to bed. But you were still wide awake, sitting alone in front of the computer. Your shadow, cast against the back wall by the soft orange glow of the desk lamp, served as your only company in the dimly lit room. Nights like these, when sleep would elude you, were usually spent sketching the troubles away. Everyone says “practice makes perfect” , but your obsessive, perfectionist brain would often say otherwise. “ You have to be perfect, everything has to be perfect,” like a broken record player echoing in your head. It was ironic that you were adamant in teaching students to avoid perfectionism, and yet you couldn’t seem to practice what you preached.
You could draw for yourself, just for fun, but right now, you didn’t feel like it. You were burnt out, creatively drained from spending the whole day, and basically the entire week, drawing at your teaching job. Maybe when you’ve gamed all your frustrations out, you could try to make a few quick sketches. But for now, a little late into the night to be ruminating on all the negativity, you turned to the next best thing: online games. With no work anxiety looming over you for the next three days, you could finally let your mind breathe, even if rest still felt out of reach.
Video games were your outlet, your distraction. They helped quiet your anxiety-addled brain when it got too loud. Some might have called it an addiction, but you always ensure that you keep track of your playtime. For you, it wasn’t about the grind; it was about the friendship. With time zones making it difficult to converse with your best friends on the regular, as well as just the daily busyness of work and life, games give you a way to escape and feel less alone.
Of all the online games you’d played, BioLine was the one you always came back to. It was where you felt most at home: chilling in hang-out lobbies, or queuing up for matches. You’d made some pretty decent friends through the game. Even though your ex, the one who had bought the game for you, was no longer around, you still continued to play. It was a nice contrast to the structured, serious routine of work and life.
You enjoyed chatting in online matches, but only through text. Voice comms stayed off unless you were with people you trusted. It wasn’t that you’re against talking to people online, but rather a way to protect your mental health from the usual harassment aimed at being a “gamer girl” : crude misogynistic insults, creepy comments, and sleazy attempts to get your contact info. You’d heard it all before: “Heal or go back to the kitchen, bitch!” shouted through the mic like it was peak comedy. Usually, you would disregard the numerous verbal abuses from players, primarily men, and on rare occasions, women, letting go of any negativity whenever you’re in a game, playing match after match, until you realize it was midnight. The rush of a win, even in a game full of toxic players, was addictive. Some insults were actually funny, if you weren’t the target. Although one did stick with you: “You may be winning games, but are you winning in life?” It was probably the funniest insult you’ve ever heard that still makes you snort. But imagine if it were directed at you? Sure, you might laugh, but you’d be dying a little inside.
Whenever the team dynamics usually fell apart in-game, you reminded yourself it wasn’t your fault, just like how you cope at work whenever parents project their problems onto the staff and basically blame everyone for everything that’s wrong with their child instead of trying to sort it out in their own homes.
Alright. That’s enough work thoughts . You really need to shut that part of your brain off and leave your work at the door.
The game loaded you into a match, diverting your attention away from your racing thoughts. The chat lit up almost instantly, inundated with the usual mix of insults and random banter. You mostly ignored them and chose your usual support class while waiting for the match to start.
Amongst the slew of randoms nattering away, one particular gamertag caught your eye, making you wheeze.
You laughed, not because you believed the positivity (the game was filled with toxic heathens), but because of the name. Who buys a seventy-dollar game and picks “Soap” as a gamertag? It’s not like one of the worst, nor was it the most unhinged gamertags you’ve seen in history. You’d seen all sorts of strange names before, like the ban-worthy “P$$4PNDR”, and other more tame but funny names like “UrStepDad” or “IGiveHugs”, but “Soap”, as simple as the name is, really takes the cake.
You didn’t know whether this match would end in chaos or cohesion. Most of the time, it swung both ways. Maybe everyone would get along. Maybe someone would get banned. It’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Either way, you already know that this match would be interesting.
With the overwhelming urge to join the chaos, you impulsively typed:
You grinned, proud of your joke. If they didn’t laugh, you might die of secondhand embarrassment. But hey, the joke was clever, right?
Right?
Anxiety crept in when Soap didn’t respond; their character just stared blankly at the wall, as if it was a lot more interesting than the garbage you typed in chat. A few random players saw your joke and told you to get a room, but you brushed them aside; you were waiting for Soap’s reaction.
Did they even read what you said? Oh no…
Just as you were about to spiral down a rabbit hole of shame, Soap turned their avatar toward you and approached. Staring at each other, rather intensely. Then, without a word, they started nodding. Fast. Enthusiastic. Dumb-looking. Spinning their avatar in place like a tornado, imagining them wildly rotating their mouse on their end to make the gesture possible. It cracked you up. You could almost picture them laughing on their end, and for some reason, you wished you could hear it.
The match kicked off slowly. Your team struggled to push through the first zone, an ambush waiting around every turn. You locked in on your teammates, doing your job to heal, topping their health bar up, your attention flickering between healing and buffing while you avoided the worst of the crossfire.
What stood out was Soap. They were fast. Smart. Cut around corners like they were born to play the game. When two enemies flanked the backline, Soap dealt with them swiftly, keeping the pressure off you and the other support.
You found yourself keeping them in your line of sight. You still healed the team, sure, but you focused on Soap a little more after what they did; it was just fair. They played like someone who didn’t need much help, but appreciated your aid.
Then this popped up in chat:
Soap was talking to you, but for what reason? You’re unsure.
You let them know that you don’t do voice chat and braced for a sarcastic reply, usually players do, but instead:
You chuckled. You didn’t mean to type “No” so fast; it was just out of habit. Since Soap asked so nicely, you relented and gave in.
It was reckless. You knew it. But you relented and went along with the plan.
The rest of the match was mayhem. One of the damage players started flaming you and the other support for no reason. Typical. You made sure to help everyone as much as you could, so there shouldn’t be any reason for unnecessary bellyaching. However, that was par for the course in popular games like this.
Before you could even sigh, Soap jumped in:
You couldn’t help but watch it unfold. Soap didn’t argue long. Just said their piece, tuned out the guy, and moved on.
Soap was focused. Calm. And cool.
Meanwhile, GotNoSK1LLz sulked in spawn like a child who didn’t get their way, and eventually got kicked out of the match for inactivity. With the deadbeat gone, Soap rallied the team and took point. Your team was short one player, but it didn’t matter, because Soap basically carried, supporting them from afar as they set their plan into action. It was dumb in theory, but everything was smooth sailing from then on, and before you know it, your team won in a landslide.
And honestly? You were impressed.
You expected a brag; some arrogant line to cap it all off. But Soap keeps finding a way to surprise you. At the end of the game, they typed:
It took a second for you to realize Soap was referring to you by the silly nickname. You sputtered, still embarrassed from typing that cringeworthy joke, but at least Soap expressed their gratitude for the effort you put into the team. It was the bare minimum — just a simple message in chat — but it was still nice to be appreciated.
Before the screen faded, you hovered over Soap’s name and left them a commendation. It was the least you could do.
You planned to queue up another match, riding on the high after a win. You wanted more, but since it’s getting late, you decided to call it a night. Better to end on a win. As you were about to log off, a DM popped up on your screen. One of your online friends, Roze, invited you to a hangout lobby. Without any hesitation, you clicked accept, and the lobby immediately loaded, where you found Roze and the others already messing about.
Roze, a player you first met when you started doing solo-queues after your breakup, greeted you with an in-game emote: a salute with tiny fireworks exploding in the background. She was always like this, greeting everyone with a hero’s welcome. You both caught up on each other’s day, work, life, and whatever else came to mind. She reminds you of one of your best friends: a spunky attitude with a goofy side. Once you’ve run out of things to talk about, Roze lets you be, and you decide to roam the map to pass the time.
Tonight’s map was a crumbling medieval village nestled deep in a dark forest. The faint lights of the high-tech prism cell towers, an eclectic mix of medieval and futuristic tech, were scattered across the landscape alongside dilapidated buildings and abandoned spaces. The calm around you made it the perfect time to get a sketch or two. You parkoured your avatar up to a higher ledge near one of the building’s entrances and settled onto a platform. Once you're comfortable, both in-game and in your chair with a blanket on your lap and your iPad resting on a stand, you let your friends know you’ll be AFK for a bit while you draw.
The game’s soothing ambient sound effects lulled you in just the right headspace to project whatever’s on your mind onto the screen, gliding the nib in curves and straight angles, etching shorter strokes for cross-hatching textures. Then, a structure gradually forms, an oriental version of one of the dilapidated buildings in front of you, with crudely drawn bamboo awnings instead of metal ones, similar to a structure you’ve seen as a kid on one of the many vacations your family went to in the countryside.
It wasn’t much. You were no M.C. Escher or Étienne-Louis Boullée. You were just another artist, one of many in the world, and it was just a sketch — something quick and rough to get your creative juices pumping. It wasn’t the best, but you still liked how it looked. Of all the life hacks a professor of yours shared in the past, the most memorable one was being able to make something small. Far too often, depression would kick in, and then the overwhelming guilt of not doing anything would soon follow. But doodling something, even if it’s random and insignificant, could help you start. The quality might vary day to day, and it doesn't matter if you can’t continue or, at the very least, finalize the piece. Just a simple sketch would do. And it worked, every single time.
You stayed focused despite the ebb and flow of players joining and leaving the lobby, way too preoccupied to catch up with the idle banter and goings-on in the lobby. However, you would glance up from time to time, half-reading the chatter as you sketched.
Until a familiar name popped up.
You stared at the screen. Wait — Soap? The same Soap from earlier? They’re in this lobby?
You dropped your Apple Pencil and frantically typed:
You smashed your face into your palms before you pressed send. What good would it do? You wanted to scream, but instead, an embarrassed wheeze bubbled up your throat, both from them saying they were glad to see you again and from them outing that silly little joke. Okay fine, it was a pickup line . You did it all the time with your other online friends; it was all in jest. It wasn’t exactly a secret; your other teammates saw it in team chat, too, though you’ve already forgotten what they said. It’s not like you and Soap shook on it and agreed that what happens in the match stays in the match. You knew the line wasn’t all that great, but Soap laughed anyway.
You’d run into old matchmates in hangout lobbies before. It wasn’t uncommon. Encounters like this were nothing new. It was just part of the game. Soap was just another player who’d been decent to you, and decent players did exist, even if they were rare; this shouldn’t be anything. Just another night. Just another name on the screen. But somehow, it wasn’t. Something about it felt different.
You fumbled for your headset and flipped it on. A chorus of voices filled your ears, a slew of chatter, a couple of people cracking jokes similar to your pickup line (which you zoned out, if you try hard enough, you could pretend it didn’t happen), and a few others deep in discussion about the game’s ranking system. You’d forgotten you had proximity chat on, and with everyone else somewhat closer to your location, the cacophony of voices was overwhelming. You tried to pinpoint Soap’s voice, but there were too many people talking at once. It was just utter chaos, but not the worst kind.
Your avatar still sat on the ledge, frozen. And then, without much fanfare, a few other players started drifting away from where you were. You knew what was happening. Roze must have DM’d everyone else to clear the area so you and Soap could have some quality time. She was trying to play matchmaker, and you loved and hated her for it.
Next thing you knew, Soap’s avatar popped into view and sat beside yours, but you did nothing. Just listened to the ambient murmur of the lobby as the other players wandered off, leaving you and Soap, along with Roze, who spectated a couple of buildings away. You knew why she hadn’t left yet. Since you hadn’t said or done anything, it was up to her to break the ice for you.
Your avatar’s shoulder was nearly brushing Soap’s. You knew you should say something, but hesitation clung to you like static. It helped to have Roze around for now. If Soap turned out to be a creep, at least you wouldn’t be alone. But so far, he hadn’t been. He seemed kind. Warm —
“Misty, say hi!” Roze called out. “Don’t ignore the guy!”
Your stomach dropped. It’s not that you were mute; you just didn’t know what to say. ‘Hi! Thanks for the game a while ago, you were pretty great! We should team up next time!’ It shouldn’t be that hard; you always force yourself to make small talk at work since you were an introvert at heart and forced to be an extrovert by profession. Still, Roze’s teasing nudged you out of your headspace.
“Tell him what you’re doing,” Roze added, her tone suggestive. You laughed, finally snapping out of your frozen state.
You finally turned your mic on. “Stop making it sound like I’m doing something dirty. I’m just drawing!” You were still giggling when Soap’s chuckle echoed yours.
“So,” he started, shifting his avatar closer to sit right in front of yours, “what’re ye workin’ on over there, then?” The guy had literally spoken only a sentence, but you were already burning up. His voice was low and raspy, and he had an accent similar to what you’ve heard from local native speakers around you, but stronger, more rapid and rhotic, and you liked the way he sounded, maybe a little too much. You didn’t want to ask about the accent, thinking it would be a touchy subject, similar to how people often ask where you’re from just by looking at you or the way you sound, as if they want to confirm their suspicions before assuming.
You cleared your throat, a little anxious to talk with someone new. “Just some sketches and blueprints for a personal project. Nothing exciting. Just trying to clear my head before bed.” You shimmied in your seat and adjusted the earcuffs of your headset. You expected a generic ‘Nice,’ followed by a polite prompt to elaborate, just to humour you. They always do, but then they get bored and eventually ignore you.
“Blueprints, eh? Ye workin’ as an architect then?” Soap asked, and you heard the clear interest in his tone. You thought you were hearing things, but you weren't.
You shook your head then chuckled, feeling silly since he couldn’t see your reaction through the screen. “Nah. I just like designing buildings on SketchUp. I usually start with rough sketches on my iPad before building them out properly.”
“Whoa,” he muttered. A thud reverberated on his end, probably his hand accidentally hitting his mouse, which made his avatar jolt upright beside you. You could tell you’d caught his complete attention; his tone had a pleasant lilt to it. “Shite, sorry,” Soap mumbled quickly, probably righting his mouse. “That’s brilliant, honestly!” You beamed at this. You like where the conversation was going. You find it pleasant to chat with someone, albeit a stranger, on things you are interested in; it relaxes you, and it makes the other person less of a stranger.
“Used to mess with 3D modelling maself back in college,” Soap added. “Got a few dusty files lying ‘round. If ye want, I could send ye some…and maybe I could take a peek at yers, too?” You paused, caught off guard by how truly curious he sounded. “Sure,” you said, more surprised by your own answer than anything else. “If you want.”
Who would've thought a few simple words could lift your mood like that? And was someone really interested in seeing your work? You still couldn’t believe it.
You went ahead and sent him a private message on where to share files. Soap suggested Discord, so you exchanged handles and added each other in the app.
It didn’t take long for the direct message window to load. You stared at the screen for a few seconds, your brain taking a bit to realize what you were seeing.
You exhaled through your nose, a scoff followed by a soft, breathy, and restrained chuckle. Then, before you knew it, you were doubling over, struggling not to laugh out loud and wake everyone up. You couldn’t believe your eyes at Soap’s Discord profile photo, which was a literal bar of soap. “What the fuck…” You whispered, still wheezing. The name already tickled you a while ago, but you didn’t realize ‘soap’ might be his whole persona.
You were typing faster than the speed of thought, still dying from the photo.
His answer is what did it for you — snorting like a pig a little too hard that your sinuses hurt. You hadn’t expected any of this to occur today. Soap slid out of nowhere and propelled himself into your life like a literal bar of soap. You tried with all your might to refrain from laughing too hard, but it was difficult.
Before you could catch your breath, a file named “Medals_Design_College_Final.pdf” landed in your inbox.
You were riding the tail end of your laughter when you clicked the attachment. As soon as the file loaded, you composed yourself and studied the piece. It was a high-res render of a medal, clean, symmetrical, polished with intricate grooves. You didn’t mean to revert to teacher mode, not to pick at the imperfections, but to imagine his thought process. You admired the artwork — well, it wasn’t really an artwork, but you could still consider the medal as such. It had a nice metallic sheen to it, the kind that could’ve passed for the real deal. It was pretty impressive.
As you stared at the design, a small text box on the side caught your eye. You zoomed in on it and inaudibly gasped. Nestled in the rectangular box, along with the course code and the submission date dating three years prior, is Soap’s real name.
John MacTavish.
You froze for a second, unsure if he meant for you to see that, but here it was. You minimized the tab and typed back:
You hovered for a second, debating whether to point out that you saw his name on the file. But you typed it anyway.
You asked, and it sounded dumb now that you were thinking about it. Obviously, it was his name; it would be weird if he sent you someone else’s file. You also weren’t trying to pry, even though the name was already obviously his.
You felt like you were intruding and had to apologize, even though you had done nothing wrong. Surely you knew it was a mistake?
You see his name on the bottom left corner — ••• Soap is typing… — popping in and out like he’s pausing to think something over.
It was a simple introduction, and yet that’s all it took for something to bloom in your chest. Something warm and comforting, like the first sip of coffee in the morning, or a savoury hot cup of cocoa. It tugged the corners of your mouth upward, feeling all fuzzy inside. There was a faint pinch in your cheeks, the kind that reminded you just how rare it was to smile like this. Not the polite kind. Not the tired, automatic kind. This one felt… different. Real.
You typed out your first name in response, although a little hesitantly, like offering a fragile part of yourself.
That made you smirk. Of course. Johnny was a jokester. You were starting to like him, a little more than you expected. Also, this wasn’t the first time you’d been teased online. But with Johnny, you didn’t mind it. Not one bit.
As promised, you shared a few files you had been working on over the past couple of weeks, casually mentioning you made them purely out of boredom. You weren’t trying to downplay your skills to fish for compliments; it was just a force of habit. Growing up, you were taught to strive for excellence, but showing pride in your accomplishments was often frowned upon. Humility was key, and that sometimes confused you. It was one of the many traits you were still trying to unlearn. So, when Johnny commended your work, you expressed your thanks, but your immediate reaction was one of disbelief. They’d pass through one ear and out the other, and you’d move on. Regardless, you couldn’t help but appreciate them, if only they'd stick; maybe you’d stop downplaying your achievements.
What started as a brief exchange of files evolved into something unexpected — a shared escape. You and Johnny dove into a conversation about the games you both enjoyed, from first-person shooters to solo adventures, and the occasional puzzle games to keep the mind sharp. It didn’t take long to realize you had one thing in common: you both used gaming as a way to disconnect from the grind of everyday life and the weight of your toilsome jobs.
You’re surprised to learn that Johnny works as a machinist in a quiet town a few hours away from where you live. You had an inkling that he was local, but you weren’t expecting him to be a literal train ride away. He explained that he’s working from the ground up to gain experience, hoping to land an apprenticeship and eventually earn his Millwright papers. He only stays at his current job for the sake of that experience, which resonated with you. You were doing the same, after all: staying in a draining job to build your resume and your connections, those were the only things that mattered in order to move forward.
As the conversation deepened, your talk of work and ambition naturally gave way to stories that shaped you both. Childhood memories surfaced, the kind that slip out when you start to feel truly at ease with someone.
Johnny says he grew up in Scotland, specifically, Glasgow, and has two younger sisters who were three and five years younger than he was. One of his favourite childhood memories was a camping trip to Troutbeck Head, where he met his childhood friend, Simon. Both their families were vacationing at the same campsite, and the two boys quickly bonded over their shared interest in fishing. When Johnny was 14, just before starting high school, his dad decided to bring the whole family across the pond. He’d been working in Canada for a long time, sending money home, but things changed when Johnny’s mum fell ill. She had an autoimmune condition that made it difficult for her to keep working. His dad thought it would be better for the family to be together, so they packed up and made the move. Even after Johnny’s family moved away, he and Simon stayed in touch, still gaming together on weekends ever since, despite the time zone difference.
Settling in wasn’t as difficult for Johnny as it might have been. The town they lived in reminded him a bit of home, different for sure, but familiar in small ways. You felt the same way in the city where you live. There were a lot of your people here: teachers, bus drivers, cleaners, business owners, and the like. Every corner you turned, they were there, still resilient as ever. You all find a way to live. But despite the familiarity, there was still no place like home.
Your hometown was somewhat overpopulated, where many people knew each other, but despite this, it was neighbourly and comfortable, and most people had either familial or friendly ties. Every summer, your family would rent a van to visit the beach or the countryside. That’s one of the things you missed when your family had to move abroad, and you miss your friends and your grandparents, but you couldn’t go back home because plane tickets were too expensive. Your family couldn’t afford to take a month off, and even if you could, a month isn’t enough time to spend with family you hadn’t seen in years.
It’s funny how a lot of immigrants save a fortune to move abroad for a better life, only for them to save up all over again in order to visit home. In your culture, going home empty-handed was frowned upon. You were expected to bring souvenirs to all your relatives, a sort of offering, even if you were barely scraping by. It was one of the many traditions that you disagreed with because you knew it didn’t sit right with you. Even Johnny agreed it sounded odd, but you insisted that’s just the way things were.
It wasn’t just the distance or cost that made going back home hard; it was everything behind it. The unspoken expectations, the pressure to give even when you had so little. And that kind of pressure didn’t stop at family visits; it shaped your whole life.
Johnny relates to your struggle, growing up, hard work and resilience were ingrained in his psyche. Although his parents didn’t expect him to give back financially like yours did, he still wanted to help in any way he could. Johnny says his dad had taken on multiple jobs to keep things going, especially in the early years after their move. For a while, the only help Johnny could offer was helping around the house. He would assist his mum with the cooking and washing the dishes. He would also help mow the lawn or shovel the driveway during winter, while his sisters would wash and fold the laundry. Chores were equally divided among the three siblings, but Johnny usually shouldered almost everything, making sure everything was clean and tidy so his mum didn’t have to worry about anything. You didn’t know why, but you found that really endearing. Nothing was more appealing than someone who was responsible, and you had a feeling this is also where his gamertag came from, so you asked.
You asked Johnny more of his youth, so he did: due to his age, he couldn’t help his dad with the bills, but once he was old enough to work, he went around town looking for a job, and first worked at a grocery store, and later at a hardware and lumber store during his college years. You told him your family had gone through something similar. Your mother juggled three jobs, working seven days a week. Your older sibling pulled night shifts. And you, who mainly focused on school, tried your best to save at least twenty dollars from whatever allowance that was left each week, which accumulated over time.
You also worked at a grocery store for a few months after graduating from college, but quit when you found a better job as an art teacher. It started as an entry-level job at minimum wage, but despite this, you did all you could to stay afloat. Thinking about it now, you admitted your job wasn’t exactly ideal. Teachers were stretched thin, overworked, underpaid, and often underappreciated. But you persevered because, regardless of everything, it was a meaningful, rewarding job.
Johnny took it all in, responding with the sincerity and understanding one experiences when going through the same motions. You felt a deep connection, and without saying a word, you hoped he felt it too.
As time passed, you shared more about the more vulnerable parts of your life, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It surprised you how, in such a short time, you were able to open up to Johnny. You didn’t mean to spill so much, not this fast, not to someone you barely knew. But Johnny made it feel easy, like you were talking to someone older. Wiser. Safer.
Which was strange, because he didn’t seem that much older than you. Was he?
You briefly paused after reading his last message, needing a second to take it in. You didn’t mean to respond so quickly without thinking, but you did and instantly regretted it.
Shit. You shouldn’t have reacted like that. Now he was probably thinking that you were one of those people who assume anyone younger doesn’t know better, and expected him to be reckless or immature just because he was in his early twenties. You scrambled for anything to say, some kind of excuse. But instead, you went with the truth.
He had a point. Why did it matter? It wasn’t like you were that much older than him. You had college classmates younger than you, and even if you and a few others were slightly older than the rest, everyone got along fine. It was never a big deal. You and Johnny were both in your twenties — grown adults. The age gap wasn’t something most people would even blink at.
Besides, it’s not like dating each other was even in the cards… Right?
But if you were being honest, if it was this easy to connect with someone, and they asked you out, wouldn’t you take the chance?
The quiet, aching need to be wanted lingered at the back of your mind. But you were scared, scared of putting yourself through it all again. Scared of the cycle repeating. Even so, there had been days when you fantasized about being in a stable relationship. You dreamed of meeting someone, falling in love and then everything would be okay, not the messy, painful kind you’d been through before. With your life consumed by constant internal turmoil, you yearned for something genuine. Something lasting.
Just the mere act of going out to run errands had your stomach twisting at the sight of any semblance of the universe, reminding you you had no one. And the deep ache of yearning, so intense it felt like falling endlessly into the abyss, hitting every invisible jagged edge as you tumbled down. Jealousy reared its ugly head far too often. You longed for someone to hold you at night, to kiss you good morning. You craved that intimacy. Was it wrong to want to be wanted? No, it wasn’t, and you knew it. But you didn’t want to hope too much. You didn’t want to seem desperate, even if, deep down, you were.
So, you stayed quiet, replaying your words over and over, wondering if you had said too much.
Even though Johnny sounded apologetic, your anxiety oozed out like someone had opened Pandora’s box, just a sliver, but enough to trigger everything. Had you messed up? You wished you could undo it. Or better yet, go back and fix every stupid thing you’d ever said or done. But then again, how could you ever move forward if you kept getting caught up rewriting the past?
You took a deep breath before replying:
Dove? You’ve never heard that term of endearment before. Surely it was a joke?
You decided to change the subject, keeping it casual even though your thoughts were racing at 200 kilometres an hour, like a storm brewing. Still, within minutes, you found yourself relaxing again and becoming engrossed in the lovely conversation. You didn’t understand how Johnny could pull you from a chaotic headspace to a comfortable plane of existence you could only achieve through sleep, like an ebb and flow of the tide. He must be some kind of miracle worker because you’ve never felt this relaxed with someone in a while. And although you’re still overthinking the things you’ve just said, he doesn’t judge you or anything, and with that, you’re grateful.
It’s lovely to finally talk to someone on a deeper level, not just another gaming buddy. You missed this kind of closeness, the kind you only ever had with people you’d known for years. And even though you’d only known Johnny for a few hours, it felt like you’d known him longer.
As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going, it was nearing 4 AM, and you both needed sleep.
You smiled cheekily, though a flicker of guilt hit. You were off work for a few days, but Johnny had to go to work.
You logged off and caught a glimpse of your reflection. For once, it wasn't the jaded look nor frustration riddled on your face; it was something different, something light.
As you head to bed and slip under the covers, your thoughts drift to everything that has happened. The day had started like any other: another headache, a blur of work, and a heavy kind of exhaustion that clung to your bones. But then there was Johnny. And somehow, with him in your life now, the day didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
That night, for the first time in months, your thoughts didn’t spiral. You hadn’t thought it possible, but you finally got the rest you’d been needing. Usually, your body slept while your mind stayed awake, leaving you restless and irritable by morning. But tonight felt different. Outside, flurries tapped gently against the window, and the wind whistled faintly through the hinges. The cold had crept in, but you were warm and cozy.
And as you lay there, you dreamed. And in that dream, there were no worries or conflicts; it was just you and Johnny, side by side, exploring one of the old BioLine maps like it was your own little world.