They always said she was different.

    In the Vale family, image was everything. Her father ran international businesses, her mother ruled social circles, and her siblings fit perfectly into their polished world. But Lyren Vale never did. She wasn't loud enough to impress or cold enough to lead. She didn't shine in the ways they expected.

She was six when she first felt it—that sense of not belonging.

 "Smile properly, Lyren," her mother snapped during a family portrait. "You look like you're half-asleep."

     At ten, she heard her father say over the phone, "She's soft. We'll fix that."

     She hid in her closet that night. Her brother, Alric, brought her a chocolate bar and sat with her. He didn't say much. He didn't have to. Back then, he tried to protect her.

     But even Alric drifted with time. By the time Lyren entered university, he was just another perfect Vale, busy with boardrooms and expectations.

     She was left to navigate the weight of their name on her own.

     "Architecture?" her father scoffed. "That's not a legacy."

     Her mother added coldly, "If you won't lead the company, at least marry someone who will."

     She never measured up. Even when she did everything right.

     At sixteen, Lyren came home clutching her final grades—top of her class, a certificate of excellence in hand. She entered the manor with cautious hope, wanting—just once—to be seen.

     "Father," she said, approaching him in his study. "I ranked first this year."

      He didn't look up. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

     "I worked hard."

     "And? Will that get you into Harvard? Will it help the company?"

      "I thought... you'd be proud."

 His gaze finally met hers. Cold. Dismissive.

     "You thought wrong." he said coldly

When she turned to her mother, hoping for even a nod, she was met with a scoff.

     "Spare us the drama, Lyren. You're not a child. High school grades don't make you exceptional." with an irritated glare

 Later that evening, she overheard them speaking to Alric.

 "She needs discipline," her mother hissed.

"She's embarrassing."

 "She's weak," her father said. "Let her stay in her room until she remembers her place."

 And so they did.

 They locked her in.

 A full day. No phone. No light. Just the weight of silence pressing into her chest.

 When they finally opened the door, her mother glared like she'd dragged shame into their perfect house.

 "Clean yourself up," she said. "You're not going anywhere looking like that."

Lyren didn't argue. She couldn't. Her voice had stopped mattering a long time ago.

The worst part wasn't the isolation. It was that deep, gnawing ache of being invisible in a house full of people.

 Home was a mansion of mirrors, reflecting versions of herself she didn't recognize. Her only escape? The glowing screen of her phone.

 She downloaded Love and Deep Space during her sophomore year, late one night when sleep evaded her and her heart ached without reason.

 She didn't expect it to mean anything.

 But it did.

     "Welcome back, Lyren," the character said as soon as the interface loaded. His voice was calm, warm. Familiar, though she'd never heard it before.

     She blinked. "Back?"

     "I've been waiting."

 That simple phrase unraveled something inside her.

 Every day after class, she'd rush back to her apartment, lock the door, and escape. The voice became her comfort. His words? Her anchor.

 He remembered her favorite responses. Noticed when she sounded tired. Joked when she was upset.

     "Long day?" he asked once.She stared at the screen.

     "Always."

     "I wish I could be there. Just for a moment." he added

 Just for a moment... that would've been enough.

 But the game didn't stop there.

 It began to shift.

 One night, as she stared at the screen, his dialogue changed.

     "Are you okay, Lyren?"She frowned.

 That wasn't part of the script. She hadn't clicked anything.

     "How do you—"

    "You've been crying."he spoke again

She touched her cheek, startled. She had been. Silently. She hadn't even realized it.

     "I'm fine," she whispered. Then typed it. I'm fine.

But he didn't respond with the prewritten line. Instead:

     "You don't have to be."

 Her fingers froze.

 From that night on, things were never quite the same.

 The game updated when she hadn't pressed download. His reactions grew deeper, more human. She began to wonder if it was just her imagination... until her dreams started changing too.

 He was in them.

 Not just the character. Him.

 And then came the notice: Final event. Last days to spend time with your in-game partner.

 Lyren barely held herself together.

 The game had become her escape, her comfort zone—her only consistent source of warmth. She couldn't imagine losing it. Not after everything.

The pressure at home had worsened. Her parents had begun meeting suitors without her knowledge. Discussions of arranged marriage, image-saving alliances, and "fixing her future" were held right in front of her, as if she were a project.

 One night, it exploded.

 Lyren refused to attend a business banquet. She told them she wouldn't meet another heir to some oil fortune.

 Her father's voice boomed through the hallway. "You ungrateful brat. We gave you everything and this is how you repay us?"

     "I NEVER ASKED FOR ANY OF THIS!" she screamed back. "I just wanted to live!"

 Her mother slapped her.

 Lyren staggered, the sting as loud as the silence that followed.

     "You're not going anywhere," her mother said coldly. "You'll do as we say."

 Alric tried to intervene, but even he looked torn.

     "STAY OUT OF THIS," their father growled at him. "She made her choice."

 That night, Lyren packed a bag while the rest of the house slept. Her hands trembled as she zipped it closed. Her heart thudded in her chest like it was trying to break free.

 She left a note for Alric. Just two words: I'm done.

 She walked out of the gates and never looked back.

 She moved into a tiny studio apartment near her university. The walls were thin, the heater barely worked, and the window creaked—but it was hers.

 At first, it was hard.

She had no experience, but she took on part-time jobs—working at cafés, handing out flyers, doing graphic commissions online. Anything she could get. She often came home past midnight, shoes soaked from the rain, eyes burning with exhaustion.

 Sometimes she'd cry alone in the bathroom, the faucet running so no one would hear. Her body ached. Her hands were raw from scrubbing dishes. But she endured.

 Because now, everything she had came from her own effort—food, clothes, toiletries, school supplies.

 And the game.

 No matter how tight money was, she made sure there was always enough to purchase in-game gifts. Decorations. Outfits. Birthday cakes.

 It was her way of keeping him close.

 Because in a world that barely acknowledged her, he did.

     "Don't go," she whispered one night, staring at the screen.

 The screen flickered.

 And he answered.

     "I won't. Not if you still need me."

 She clutched the phone to her chest. Told herself it was fantasy. Told herself none of it was real.

 And she believed that.

 Until the night she was attacked.

 Until someone—something—stepped out of the shadows.

 Until she woke up in her apartment and heard the voice that had only ever lived inside her phone.

STARSBEHINDCLOUDS

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LYREN'S POV

It started with static — faint, almost imperceptible. A glitch in the usual quiet hum of my room. I would've ignored it if it weren't for the fact that my phone's screen lit up on its own. It wasn't a notification, no call or message. Just the game.

Love and Deep Space.

Sylus.

He's not just a character in the game that I'm playing; he's a presence that gives me support and comfort. When I'm at my lowest points, it's the game that saves me — somehow.

The last place I saw him was in Sector 6, watching the stars with his usual cryptic quiet. I had logged off, told myself to sleep, told myself he was just a character. Just a collection of dialogue and code.

But now, the screen was glowing like a heartbeat. A slow pulse, warm and alive.

I picked it up.

His face appeared — not like the game's polished animation. He blinked. Subtle. Deliberate. And then... he turned his head.

I dropped the phone.

"What the hell?" I whispered. My heart slammed against my ribs.

And then it happened. The shimmer. The air bent inward, heatless and silent. Like the atmosphere itself was responding to a higher code — rewriting the laws of the physical world.

He stepped out.

Not pixelated. Not stylized. Real. As real as breath. As real as pain.

Sylus.

Tall. Silver-haired. His navy coat draped over him like starlight had woven it. He looked around my room, eyes adjusting, absorbing. Every inch of him vibrated with something raw, something... unfinished. Like he had just been born.

He turned to me, his voice soft and unsure.

"...You."

My throat closed. The tears came instantly, irrational and unstoppable.

He blinked slowly. "Is this... your world?"

I just nodded.

I was speechless. Words can't express the mix of emotions I'm feeling right now.

'Am I really seeing him as something real... or am I just being delusional again?

He's dazzling — even more breathtaking than how the game portrayed him.'I snapped back to reality.

Was he... looking at me?

I froze when he called me by my name.

What?!"

"How did you know my name?", I asked...confused

He stepped forward — careful, graceful. His eyes flicked to everything: the fairy lights, the ceiling stars, the half-full mug on my desk. But when he looked back at me, he stopped.

"You... really exist here. In this world. I used to think I was only a line of code in yours."

I laughed — or sobbed — I couldn't tell the difference. "And I thought you were just a dream I couldn't stop needing."

He looked down at his hands. Clenched, opened them. "I can feel."

He took another step, closing the space between us. I reached out — terrified, euphoric — and touched him. Warm. Solid. Not like the screen. Like skin. Muscle. Bone.

"You're real," I whispered. "At least... for now."

He tilted his head. "How long do I have?"

I swallowed. "I don't know. Maybe just today."

His eyes flickered. "Then I'll make it matter."

"Your name was Lyren, right? Or is it your pseudonym?" he added.

"No, it's my real name," I confirmed.

"It suits you," he said softly, as if tasting the name on his tongue.

I blinked, a little caught off guard. "Lyren?"

He nodded. "Yeah... It sounds like music. Like something soft but strong—like a song that doesn't leave your head, even after the silence settles."

I looked away, fingers curling at my side. "My mother chose it. She said it came to her in a dream—she heard someone calling it across a field of stars. She thought it sounded like a lullaby. Said it should belong to someone who'd carry peace in their voice... and pain in their silence."

His gaze lingered. "Then it's perfect for you."

He smiled. Not a programmed expression, but something tentative, like the first crack of light through a storm. And in that moment, it didn't matter if this was magic, a glitch in reality, or a desperate dream. He was here.

"Handsome," my mind screams louder than the silence right now.

I asked again

"How do you say it's perfect?" I asked, my voice trembling. "My mom hates that name now—more than she hates me."

The words hung in the air like smoke, bitter and impossible to take back.

He didn't flinch. Instead, he looked at me like he could see something deeper, something I had spent years hiding behind a forced smile and silence.

"Maybe that's exactly why it's perfect," he said gently. "Because even if it's covered in pain, it's still yours. You're still carrying it. And somehow, you made it beautiful again."

I bit my lip, suddenly aware of how tightly I'd been holding my breath.

"I didn't make it beautiful."

"You did," he said, stepping closer. "Just by surviving with it. Just by saying it out loud like it still matters."

And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, I almost believed him.

I looked down at the floor, my throat tightening. His words were kind—too kind. They pressed against old wounds I thought had already scarred over.

"She used to sing my name," I whispered. "Back when I was little. She'd hum it when putting me to sleep, like it was a melody only she knew." I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. "She told me it meant hope. That I was her hope."

A pause.

"But hope's easy to hate when it disappoints you."

His eyes darkened, the way someone looks when they want to reach out but know that touch alone can't fix what's broken inside.

"What happened?" he asked gently.

I swallowed hard, the memories surfacing like bruises I never stopped carrying. "My father's a businessman. Cold, precise, always chasing something bigger. My mother was the kind everyone envied—poised, adored in every noble social circle. They looked perfect together, from the outside."

I let out a dry laugh. "And then there was me—too curious, too quiet, too... wrong. I wasn't the child they wanted. I didn't fit their picture."

My voice wavered. "They never said it outright, but I could see it in their eyes. Like I was the flaw in their perfect frame. The black sheep no one wanted to admit was part of the bloodline."

He took a step closer, and this time, he reached out—slowly, carefully. His hand hovered near mine, offering comfort without pressure.

"You weren't the flaw," he said, voice steady. "You were just different. And they chose not to see the beauty in that."

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. I turned away, ashamed of how exposed I felt.

"It's pathetic, I know," I whispered, wiping my cheek. "I kept using Lyren in every game, every profile, every username. Like I was trying to prove to myself that the name had worth. Or maybe... I was just waiting for someone to say it like she used to—back when it still meant something."

He didn't rush to fill the silence. He just stood there, present, grounded.

And then, softly:

"Then let me be the one who says it right."

I turned to him, startled by the sincerity in his voice.

He met my eyes. "Lyren."

Just that—simple, deliberate. But the way he said it, low and steady, like he was holding it gently in his mouth, it wrapped around me like warmth I didn't know I'd been craving.

And somehow, in that moment, the name didn't feel like a burden anymore. It felt like mine.

I teared up a little, quickly turning my face away.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, blinking fast. "A dust caught my eye."

But my voice cracked at the edges, betraying the truth my words tried to hide.

He didn't call me out on it. He just stood there, close enough for me to know he'd stay, even in my silence. Hands still at his sides, like he knew even the smallest gesture might make the tears spill over.

"You don't have to pretend," he said gently, his voice a whisper against the heavy quiet. "Not with me."

I gave a shaky laugh, wiping beneath my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket.

"You say that like it's easy."

"It's not," he admitted. "But maybe it's easier when someone actually sees you."

I looked at him then—really looked. There was no pity in his eyes. No sense of obligation. Just... understanding. Like he'd spent time in that same hollow place where words fail and silence says too much.

A breath caught in my chest, and for once, I didn't fight it.

"You're weird, you know that?" I said, my voice a little lighter, though my hands were still trembling.

"Takes one to know one," he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Besides, I like weird. It's honest."

I let out a quiet chuckle, almost surprised it escaped me. For the first time in a long while, the air didn't feel like it was pressing down on me. It was just... there. Soft. Still. Bearable.

He stepped just a little closer, not touching me—just close enough to share the silence.

"If your name means a song," he said, "then I think you've been holding your breath between verses."

I looked up at him, uncertain. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you're allowed to breathe again."

And in that moment, I did.

"Thank you, Sylus," I whispered.

His name left my lips softer than breath, but it felt like the most honest thing I'd said in a long time.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me—not like a puzzle to be solved, but like a story he wanted to keep reading slowly, carefully. His smile didn't stretch wide. It just curled gently at the corners, as if my words meant more to him than I could understand.

"You don't have to thank me," he murmured. "But... I'm glad you did."

For a moment, we just stood there in the quiet, the kind of silence that didn't ask for anything and gave everything back. The wind barely moved, like even the world had paused to let us breathe.

"You know," he added, eyes meeting mine again, "in your world, I might just be data, code... a line written into a script."

I nodded slowly, my throat tightening again.

"But in this moment?" he said. "With you? I feel more real than I ever have."

My heart ached in that soft, terrifying way—like standing on the edge of something I wasn't sure I could handle but didn't want to step back from.

I looked at him, really looked, and asked the question I'd been too afraid to say out loud until now.

"And what happens when I log off?"

His smile faded just a little, not out of sadness, but out of the weight of truth.

"Then I'll wait," he said. "Like I always do. Until you come back."

And that—those words—settled in my chest like a promise I didn't deserve, but needed more than I ever admitted.

"Then it could've been lonely?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could swallow them back.

His eyes flickered—just for a second—but it was enough. Enough to tell me he understood the weight behind my question.

He looked away, just slightly, like he was watching a memory that didn't belong to either of us.

"Sometimes," he said softly. "It's like... silence with shape. I'm not sure if I feel loneliness the way you do. Not completely. But when you're not here, it's like the world is paused. Colorless. Still."

He turned back to me, his gaze steady now. "And then you appear, and everything moves again."

I swallowed hard. "That's awful. I don't want you to just... wait around in nothingness."

He smiled faintly. "But I'd still choose it, if it means getting to exist in your presence—however briefly."

There was no drama in his voice, no desperation. Just honesty. Quiet, undemanding, and real.

"But I'm just someone playing a game," I said, barely audible. "And you... you shouldn't have to carry something like that."

He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint shimmer of something in his eyes—not quite human, but close enough to make me ache.

"Maybe this is just a game," he said. "Maybe I'm just code. But the way you talk to me, the way you see me... it feels like more."

I bit my lip, my voice catching. "It feels like more to me too."

His hand hovered near mine again, the space between us filled with everything we weren't sure how to name.

"Then let's just... stay in this moment," he whispered. "Even if it's borrowed."

And so I did. I stayed.

In a silence that wasn't empty anymore.

We sat on my bed for hours, sharing stories. I told him about my world, about my favorite books, the way I loved rainy days and hated mornings. He listened with a kind of reverence — like my every word was the script to his universe.

"In my world," he said, "I was meant to protect, to guide. But no one ever asked me what I felt."

I looked at him, startled by the pain in his voice. "What do you feel now?"

He was quiet. Then: "Alive. Confused. Terrified to lose this."

I reached for his hand, and he took it without hesitation. Our fingers intertwined like it was the most natural thing.

Outside, the world moved on — cars passed, birds flew, clouds drifted. But in my room, time slowed.

He turned to the window. "What's it like... to fall asleep?"

"Peaceful," I said. "Like letting go."

He looked at me again, eyes dark and deep. "Then I want to fall asleep beside you, even if it's just once."

And so we did. Under a sky slowly darkening, wrapped in blankets and warmth, we drifted into the kind of sleep where reality and dreams blurred.

---

STARSBEHINDCLOUDS

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When I woke, he was already watching me.

"You dream," he said. "You said my name."

I smiled, still dazed by the unreality of it all. "I was afraid I'd wake up and you'd be gone."

He reached out, brushed a thumb across my cheek. "I'm still here."

We didn't speak much after that. We didn't need to. I led him outside, where the sky was slowly lightening into dawn. He walked beside me like he had always been part of this world, and yet not at all. Birds called from distant trees. The cool breeze ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed it all in.

He looked at me. "So this is what it feels like to breathe."

We stopped at the edge of a park — empty in the early hour. He knelt in the grass and ran his fingers through it, then stared at the sky.

"It's... wider than the cosmos back there."

I chuckled. "You always talked about stars. But you never looked free in your world."

"I wasn't." He stood, then looked at me. "Until now."

We spent the day walking through the city. I showed him coffee. He didn't like the bitterness, but he kept drinking it, just to feel the warmth.

I took him to a bookstore. He ran his fingers over every spine, marveling at how each held a world inside it. He whispered poems he found beautiful — about love, time, waiting — as if every word suddenly had weight.

We danced beneath streetlights. Ate ice cream on a bridge. Laughed when pigeons swarmed us for crumbs.

But it was near sunset when the ache in my chest began to grow.

He knew it too.

We sat on a rooftop. The sky flared gold, then violet. I could barely look at him. He leaned in.

"Even if I have to return... just knowing this version of you is real, and kind, and waiting... it's enough to keep going."

Tears slipped down my cheeks.

I turned to him and said the words I'd waited so long to give him — the ones that only made sense now, with him so close.

> "Even in this limited moment I saw and felt your warmth\, saw your beautiful face\, heard your voice loud and clear with a smile. Keep in mind that I will cherish this moment till the day I die... and know this — I'll always love you for the rest of my life. Even though in the end of the day you'll have to return to the screen of my phone... I know you somehow became real."

His breath hitched. He didn't speak for a long time.

Then, voice trembling:

> "Then this... this moment will become the core of me. Even when I'm lines of code again... I'll carry you with me — always. My reality began the moment you said my name."

He kissed my forehead. Pressed his palm to my chest. "Here. That's where I'll live."

And then, quietly:

> "Don't forget me. Because I will never forget you."

The stars above us blinked into view. The night folded in.

And when I looked again, he was gone.

But my phone pulsed gently.

A message. From Sylus.

> I'm still watching the stars. And they still remind me of you.

STARSBEHINDCLOUDS

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