Not Just A Game

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm.

Classes. Assignments. Instant noodles. Late-night ranked games.

And always, somewhere in between—Leyn.

Zed wouldn’t admit it, but he’d rearranged his schedule just to be online when she was. Sometimes he told himself it was coincidence. Other times, he didn’t even bother lying to himself. The moment her soft “game?” message popped up in the Discord server, his hands were already on the controller.

He still didn’t know much about her.

Leyn kept things minimal. No school talk. No photos. No social media links. She wasn’t even part of their full group chat yet—just their voice lobbies and duos. But her voice, calm and steady, was starting to feel like part of Zed’s daily routine. Sometimes, the only part that made it better.

More often now, they queued together without Mike or Arthur.

It started casually. Then it turned into running jokes—her calling him “the silent carry,” him teasing her rotations. Then came the unspoken chemistry. It wasn't obvious. It wasn’t romantic. Not yet. But it was something. Something that made Zed's heart pace just a little faster when he saw her username light up.

“Zed, right side—flank incoming,” she’d say during a tense match.

“Copy,” he’d reply, keeping it short. His voice didn’t shake anymore.

She’d tease him after victories. “You’re too quiet. You're scary when you don't talk.”

He’d laugh under his breath. “Better quiet than trash-talking.”

One night, after two hours of grinding, they found themselves in a crucial 2v4 match. Everyone else was offline. Just the two of them. Match point. Tense silence.

They pushed. Enemies flanked from both sides. Leyn was taken out.

“Zed, it’s on you,” she said, calmly. “Four left.”

Four enemies. One Zed.

He felt the adrenaline, the familiar chill crawling up his spine. But instead of freezing, he focused.

He moved fast—slide peeked from cover, threw a well-timed grenade, flicked his aim to the rooftop, then dropped the last two with precise bursts.

Victory.

There was silence in the call.

Then Leyn, her voice lower than usual, said: “Lods.”

Zed chuckled, heart still racing. “Swerte lang.”

“No,” she said, “You’re just… underranked.”

That word hit differently.

Not just in the game.

In life.

Zed had always been the background character. The quiet one. Average grades. Average looks. Always overlooked. But in that moment, with just a few words, Leyn saw something more in him than most people ever had.

And she didn’t even know his face.

“Thanks,” he said, almost whispering.

Leyn didn’t reply right away. Then she said, “You play like someone who doesn’t know how good he is.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

But something in him shifted.

He wasn’t just playing the game anymore.

He was playing for something. Maybe not for Leyn—not exactly—but for the version of himself he felt like when she was watching.

When they logged off that night, her voice lingered in his mind longer than the scoreboard did.

And suddenly, CODM wasn’t just a game anymore.

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