It started with a pillow fight.

Just another random event in LumaVerse.

The usual neon lights. Players jumping into party games. Loud emotes. The kind of noise I usually avoided.

I almost skipped it.

But then I saw her.

Liora.

Green hair, tied into a messy half-ponytail with violet bows. A soft green and purple dress that fluttered when she ran. She didn’t walk she danced across the room like she belonged to it.

She was mid-swing when her avatar’s pillow hit mine.

“Oops,” she typed. “I was aiming for someone else.”

I laughed.

“You sure?”

She sent a wink emoji.

“You looked like you needed to wake up.”

After the game ended, she messaged again.

“Hey, do you do tasks? I have a few I need help with. I’ll owe you.”

That’s how it started.

We played Dance Match, then Guess the Expression, then that weird Spin-to-Act challenge I always hated — but with her, it felt fun.

I helped her through her list of dailies.

Then, without asking, she helped me with mine.

No awkwardness. No expectations.

Just... easy.

We ended the night in the café. Her favorite place. She always sat in the back corner by the window.

“You’re nice,” she said.

“Most people leave after helping.”

“Maybe I stayed ‘cause you’re fun to be around.”

She didn’t reply right away. Just changed her outfit mid-conversation.

“Cute.”

“The outfit or me?” I teased.

She didn’t answer that either.

Just sent a pink heart and logged out.

The next day, she was online before me.

“Kael! I’m with my parents, come meet them.”

I didn’t know what she meant.

Until I followed her to a cozy little digital house she called “home.”

There was a couple waiting on the front porch older-looking avatars, dressed neatly, with warm bios and matching usernames.

“They’re my in-game family,” she explained.

“I roleplay sometimes. Feels nice, you know? Like I have a place to belong.”

I said nothing for a second.

Because I did understand.

More than she probably knew.

They were kind , her in-game mom and dad.

Asked me about my hobbies, teased Liora gently. Called me “friend-boy” instead of boyfriend.

“He’s helping me with tasks,” Liora said quickly, hiding her avatar behind a tree.

I played along, laughed, told stories I made up on the spot. It was weird… but weird in the kind of way that made you feel warm.

Later, when we were alone, she messaged again.

“You’re the first person I ever brought home here.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t usually… let people in like that. But I trust you.”

I stared at her message for a long time.

This was just a game.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

But I felt something move in my chest.

Something quiet. Soft. Real.

We kept playing after that every day, every night.

She’d wait for me by the café. Sometimes in new outfits. Sometimes with her green hair styled different. Sometimes tired, sometimes chatty.

But always there.

And I was always there too.

I didn’t know where it was going.

But I knew something had already started.

And it mattered.

More than I was ready to admit.

[end of Chapter One]

I didn’t plan on confessing that night.

It just… happened.

After everyone left and it was just the two of us, she stayed longer than usual.

She always did that — stayed just a little longer than expected. Like she was waiting for something, even if she didn’t say it out loud.

I told her.

No big speech. No fancy emoji. Just the truth.

“I like you. A lot.”

She replied fast — almost too fast.

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

That was it.

Nothing changed… but everything changed.

Being with Liora felt like logging into comfort.

We still did the usual — café visits, outfits, dancing randomly in front of strangers. But now, every moment had weight to it.

She’d wait for me, sitting quietly with a flower in her hand or a new hat on her head.

Sometimes she'd say, “This reminded me of you.”

It was just pixels — accessories and animations — but it meant something.

I’d surprise her too.

Little things. A new outfit. A letter I wrote in a note app at 2 a.m.

A random flower left in her messages with no caption — just so she’d smile when she opened the game.

One time I tried writing her a poem. I’m not good at that stuff.

But she liked it. She said she saved it.

That’s how I knew I was in deep.

But then life happened.

I started getting busier — real life pulling me in different directions.

Work. Deadlines. Study stress. Family.

Some days I barely had time to breathe, let alone talk.

I still messaged her.

Every morning: “gm <3”

Every night: “gn angel”

It felt like enough. Like I was trying.

But to her, maybe it felt like distance.

Then the questions came.

“Are you still into this?”

“You don’t reply like before.”

“Is someone else keeping you company?”

It hurt. Not because she doubted me — but because I was trying so hard and still failing to make her feel secure.

She wasn’t cold. Just scared.

She’d been hurt before — I knew that.

She needed reassurance, not silence. And I wasn’t giving her enough of it.

I started writing her longer messages.

Leaving her little love notes when I couldn’t be online.

I gifted her random things — dresses she’d never buy, decorations she’d once admired in a shop window.

I tried to remind her with actions, not just words.

But sometimes, she still pulled away.

Softly. Quietly. Like someone preparing for a goodbye they didn’t want to say yet.

And I’d chase that distance with a smile I didn’t feel, just so she’d stay.

Some nights were perfect.

We’d sit together in the plaza, late night glow from the lights reflecting off the screen.

She’d tell me stories — some real, some roleplay. I listened to every word like it mattered.

Because it did.

She mattered.

But cracks were forming.

One night, after a long day, I logged in late.

She was already online. Waiting.

My message was short: “Hey, I’m here.”

She didn’t reply.

When I asked what was wrong, she finally said it:

“I feel invisible.”

And something in me cracked right down the middle.

Because I was doing everything I could. And it still wasn’t enough.

I didn’t know what to say that night.

I told her I loved her.

That I cared. That she meant more to me than this game ever could.

She said nothing for a while.

Then she just whispered,

“I’m scared you’ll stop trying.”

The nights felt colder lately, but it wasn’t the air that chilled me — it was the silence that grew between us. The kind of silence that stretched far beyond missing words, heavy and suffocating like a fog that slowly creeps in and blurs everything once clear.

It was subtle at first.

A late reply here, a shorter message there.

I told myself it was nothing. Just stress, busy days, the usual.

But deep down, I knew better.

---

That night, I logged in exhausted. My eyes were heavy from studying, my fingers cramped from endless typing, my mind scattered between deadlines and presentations. But she was there, waiting.

Her avatar sat alone in the plaza café, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows across the pixelated walls. I sent a quick “Hey.” No reply. I waited. Then I sent “You okay?”

Still nothing.

---

Finally, she messaged me.

> “Are you talking to other girls?”

I blinked.

Stared at the words like they were some cruel joke.

Why would she think that?

I opened my mouth to type, but the screen blinked out before I could reply.

---

I wanted to scream at the screen,

> “No! You’re the only one.”

But instead, I typed slowly:

> “I’m not. Why would you think that?”

Her reply was almost immediate.

> “Because you don’t talk to me anymore. You barely reply. You’re distant. I see your messages to others, but you ignore me.”

The accusation stung, sharper than I expected.

I remembered the times I stayed up late, writing her poems, sending little gifts.

Remembered the mornings I messaged her first thing, the nights I said “good night.”

But it never felt like enough.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care.

I cared too much, maybe.

But I was buried under responsibilities — the kind that don’t stop, don’t wait for feelings or moments.

And she was scared.

Scared of being forgotten.

Scared of being replaced.

I tried to explain, but words felt brittle, fragile.

“I’m just… tired.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re the only one.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, the silence grew louder.

Over the next few days, things spiraled.

She stopped logging in as much.

When she did, she was cold.

Her messages were short, distant.

One night, I found her online, but she ignored my messages.

I sent flowers, poems, letters — all went unanswered.

The weight of it crushed me.

I knew trust was fragile with her, but I thought love would be stronger.

I thought she’d understand.

But maybe love isn’t enough when fear takes over.

Then came the night we broke up.

It wasn’t dramatic. No yelling, no accusations.

Just the quiet end of something we both wanted to keep alive.

She sent me a message that said:

“Maybe this distance is too much. Maybe we’re too different.”

I wanted to argue. To beg. To promise things would be better.

But my heart was tired.

My mind was exhausted.

So I replied simply:

“Maybe you’re right.”

The hours after felt like walking through a dream.

I logged back into the plaza — the place where everything started — and sat alone, my avatar still surrounded by soft glowing lights, now feeling cold and empty.

I kept staring at the screen, hoping she’d log back on, hoping she’d message me.

But the quiet stayed.

I thought about all the good times.

The pillow fights and guessing games.

The silly jokes and late-night talks.

Her laugh, bright even through the pixelated voices.

I thought about the poems I wrote, the flowers I sent, the promises I made.

And I wondered if it was all just a story I told myself to keep the pain away.

That night, I wrote her one last message.

“I love you. I always will. Even if we’re apart.”

I sent it without expectation.

Maybe it was foolish.

Maybe it was the only truth left.

When I finally logged off, the world outside felt colder, darker.

And I realized sometimes love hurts so much, it breaks you.