Chapter One: The Glitch in the Stars

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.

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STARSBEHINDCLOUDS

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