🪼

You may not be the smartest person out there, sure. But you're also far from gullible. It starts with the touches, slow and languid, as if Ren’s fingers were made of shards and yours were clay. It takes awhile before they hold onto you with confidence, easing you into a secure grip within the soft sheets. And then it slips out.

“My angel,” Ren licks up the base of your neck, tracing gentle circles onto your pinned wrists with his thumb,”So pretty f’me.”

They press desperate and wet kisses onto your skin, sucking with a deep fervour that leaves patches of purple and red, before using his other hand to cup your chin in a gentle grip, “D’you want this as bad as I do?”

You almost miss the glint in his eyes with his pink dishevelled hair shadowing over his face, but it was too easy to notice the sudden burst of boldness when your head’s not dumbed out by him fucking the life out of you.

In a split second, Ren redirects his hands to grip your hips, trailing lower to lift your legs against his broad shoulders. They press their nose against the wet patch of your underwear, taking in a long sniff like a mind-numbing drug. He shivers in delight from the contact, pulling back before quickly dipping his face in again to press firm and lengthy licks against your slit, eliciting soft breaths from your throat. He licks once, then twice, before haphazardly pulling the fabric aside with his fingers, slotting one in while his lips focus on kissing your clit in a gentle motion.

“So fucking pretty,” Ren mewls into your warmth with his tongue all caught up, drinking down your wetness that drips all the way down his chin, “Absolutely beautiful, shit.”

Their praises barely register in your brain as you feel hazy with pleasure. You buck your hips into his face, squeezing your thighs against his ears while he continues to lap up at your pussy. He inserts another finger, now two, stroking in a rhythm at all the right spots with just how long his digits are. Ren has you memorized like a map, his temple, his beloved treasure to be spoiled with pleasure.

You feel the coil below your stomach build up as he continues his ministrations, his breaths getting more desperate as the sound of wet squelching and slurping fills the bedroom. With one last stroke, you lock your plush thighs against his head, letting him soak his face in the delight of your juices.

The sight of Ren is pure sin, his face drenched with sticky residue as a thin line of saliva pulls away from your heat. You completely ease yourself into the mattress, breathless and hazy in the aftershock of the pleasure. He scoots closer to you, wrapping his arm loosely around your shoulder as he watches you recollect yourself, pale blue eyes slowly dazing into a daydream.

“Ren,” You whisper softly as if the air was fragile, brushing your fingers against his clothed chest. Your nails trail gently across his shoulder, then his arms, “Look at me, please?”

And he doesn't refuse, not as if he ever would for you. Their eyes flicker to yours, and you continue,

“You know that I love you, right?”

No matter the months of tousling sheets, intertwining of fingers, and breathless promises of eternity—Ren stares as if it was his first time hearing such a revelation from your lips. He always seems surprised by your affections, mouth slightly agape, as if he's ready for your feelings to dissipate into smoke in any second. You frown for a moment, and he, just as Ren always does, quickly notices how your eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty. They quickly twist their lips into a smile, large hands encompassing the small of your back.

“Ahhh, you're so so so so so sweet to me.” Ren presses his face deep against your neck, taking in the scent of your afterglow.

But he does not answer your question.

You gently pull his face away from your embrace, pushing him down on his back. His face slightly twists into confusion, but he doesn't complain as you go up to sit against his hips in a straddle. His bulge doesn't go unnoticed, feeling the thick length twitch against your thigh as you accidentally press onto it. Ren flinches at that, shifting whatever he can of his legs to hide it with the sheets.

“Mnh.. It's okay, angel.” He insists like always, trying to ease you to sleep with comforting strokes against the back of your head.

“I notice when you get all rough, all jealous and handsy.” Ren seems somewhat ashamed at this, twisting his head aside to avoid your gaze. No matter his attempt to perfect the gentle persona he thinks you've always wanted, it's inevitable that things slip when there's just so much that threatens to take his heart’s purpose away. 

“I like it too, that part of you.” You reassure him, “I like you.”

“Point is,” You continue as your lips brush against the lobe of his ear, “You're sweet too, you know that?”

A deep blush creeps onto his cheeks and ears, a small whimper escaping his lips. You can almost tell what he's thinking with his eyebrows furrowed and eyes soft, as if lamenting in his head, Is it really okay? 

You take him out of that train of thought by pulling down the waistband of his pants, freeing his length from the uncomfortably tight confines. Gripping the thick base with your palm, you slowly begin working gentle up and down motions. You don't push them to take off their shirt, pressing a gentle kiss through their clothed chest.

“You're beautiful,” You begin, quickening the pace of your fist. 

“You're so kind to me,” Using your other hand to palm at his tip, you press another soft kiss on his neck,”You keep me safe, keep me so well protected.”

“I love the way you show others that I'm yours." Yours. Yours. Yours. Ren shivers at the idea. Totally, wholeheartedly his.

“Hah—fuck” A breathy moan escapes Ren’s quivering lips, “You're mine, all mine. And m’yours—hnghh, angel.”

All yours, all yours. He babbles incoherently. 

As his breath quickens, your aching wrist tries to keep up with the unrelenting desire to see him release right under you, your other hand shifting to rub the sensitive spot below the tip. At that, his fingers clench tightly against the sheets, loud and whiny moans erupting from his throat. His eyes are practically filled with stars as thick ropes of cum spurts out his dick, legs quivering while you continue to stroke it to the point of overstimulation. 

You press one last kiss on their lips, holding their cheek in your palm.

“You're perfect, Ren.” 

They whine at the sheer abundance of emotions that flow in their heart, the sensitivity of their dick and the softness of their ethereal deity infront of them. There's just so much, so so much when the entirety of his life had been void of all reason and purpose without knowing what your love feels like. 

“It's okay to be a bit selfish sometimes.” 

With all the energy drained out of him, Ren takes one last look at you before drifting off into a deep slumber, his chest heaving softly. You cherish this, taking in your beautiful partner in all their glory, as if capturing a fleeting moment that's bound to crumble. 

Because you know it will. 

In the morning, he would be gone, back into a facade of uncertainty, hands that brush with hesitation, and twisting dialogues that twist confusion in your heart.

You love him regardless, yet you still find yourself mourning. 

Ren would make sure that you're both mentally and physically okay before finding the cause of your problem(s) and putting a stop to it.

But it all gets put on hold while he sticks to your side like glue; offering to make you some tea (or something else to drink) while he diverts your attention with your favourite movie, anime, or video game. He'll snuggle up with you on the couch and let you do your own thing, but let you know that he's there to listen to your frustrations.

SPRING

The rain makes the decision for you.

One moment you are walking, and the next the sky opens without warning the way it does in early spring. You duck into the nearest door and find yourself inside a tea shop that is small and warm and smells like roasted wood and something faintly floral, and you think, This is fine. I’ll wait it out.

The place is nearly full. You find the last empty seat by a window—a table for two, modest, and a little worn at the edges. You sit, and you set your bag down. Outside, the rain sheets down the glass in long, uneven stripes, and the street empties quickly, everyone scattering for cover.

A man is sitting across the room when you notice him, and you think that notice is perhaps too strong a word. He is simply there—the way the rain is there, the way the low hum of other people’s conversations is there. A presence that does not demand anything of you. He has something in front of him that he hasn’t touched. He is looking out at the rain.

You look back out at the rain, too.

For a short while, you are two people looking at the same thing from across a room, and the world continues on without remarking upon it.

The rain eventually slows, and then it stops. The street outside begins to reappear. You gather your things without hurry.

Somewhere in the process of leaving, your paths converge with the man near the door, that small, thoughtless choreography of strangers in a narrow space—a half-step adjustment, a slight turn of the shoulder—the kind of thing the body does without consulting the mind.

You don’t look at his face. He doesn’t look at yours.

The door opens and you step through it. The air outside is cool and clean and smells like wet concrete and the very beginning of something you couldn’t name, and you breathe it in without knowing why.

You think about what you’ll have for dinner.

You think about whether the rain will come back.

You do not think about the tea shop, or the window, or the figure sitting quietly across the room.

You don’t think about anything else at all.

SUMMER

The second time you meet him, the heat is unbearable.

Summer settles over the city like a held breath. The sun burns, cicadas sing from somewhere unseen, and the pavement radiates warmth through the soles of your shoes. By noon, the world feels slow and molten.

You stop at a convenience store mostly for the air conditioning.

The bell above the door chimes as you step inside. Cold air brushes your skin, carrying the scent of chilled drinks and sweet bread and freezer burn. You stand there at the entrance for a moment longer than necessary, letting your body cool.

Eventually, you move toward the refrigerators in the back and reach for the last bottle of lemon soda at the exact same time as someone else. Your fingers brush first.

“Sorry,” you say automatically, pulling your hand back.

“It’s alright.”

You look up at the stranger.

It’s him. The man from the tea shop. For a moment, neither of you say anything.

Up close, he looks softer than you remember. Summer light spills through the windows and catches against the edges of him—gold at the shoulders, gold in his hair, and gold in his eyes as he looks at you.

Recognition arrives slowly. “You were at the tea shop,” he says.

“You remember that?” I did. “That was so long ago.”

“You were soaking when you came in.”

Something about the answer makes you smile. He smiles too, small and easy.

“You can take it,” he says, gesturing toward the drink.

You shake your head. “It’s okay. You reached for it first.”

“And you touched it first.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“Then maybe we should settle it another way.” There’s something playful in his voice now.

You tilt your head. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

He considers the bottle thoughtfully before opening the refrigerator again and pulling out a second drink entirely. “This one tastes terrible,” he says. “You should try it.”

You stare at him for a second before laughing.

You end up sitting outside the store together beneath the shade offered by the awning. The heat presses against the city in waves, but neither of you seem to be in any hurry to leave.

The terrible drink is, in fact, terrible.

“It’s awful,” you tell him after the first sip.

He laughs instantly. “I warned you.”

“You said I should try it. That implies some level of recommendation.”

“A bad recommendation. I said it tastes terrible.”

“But that didn’t stop you from buying it.”

He shrugs. “I was curious.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You make poor decisions out of curiosity?”

“Constantly.”

You laugh again, and this time it comes much easier.

You learn his name then. Phainon. Easy on the tongue and it settles strangely gently inside you, like something already familiar.

After that, seeing him becomes easy.

You run into each other at bookstores and train stations and food stalls tucked into side streets. Once beneath the glaring white sun of afternoon, once beneath the glow of evening. Sometimes planned, sometimes not. Eventually, you stop pretending coincidence has anything to do with it.

Summer stretches.

You learn the shape of his laughter before you learn the shape of his hands. You learn he likes peach flavored things despite insisting they’re too sweet. You learn he reads the plot of a movie first online so he can prepare himself if something unexpected were to come. You learn he reads the last page of books first, too. And you learn he walks more slowly when he is tired but never says aloud.

The days grow longer with him. Or maybe they just simply begin to matter more.

One evening, the two of you sit by the river with a melting popsicle staining your fingers yellow and purple. The sky above the water burns gold, then amber, then something softer and bluer.

“You know,” Phainon says suddenly, “I think summer suits you.”

“Because I’m sweating to death?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No.”

“Then why?”

Phainon looks at you for a second before glancing away again. “I think it’s because summer was when I got to see you again.”

The breeze shifts gently through the summer heat. Somewhere nearby, music spills from an open door, distant but warm.

You look at him then. At the way the streetlamp’s light catches against his skin. At the way he leans back on his hands beside you. At the quiet certainty of him. And something inside you blooms like the way flowers do in summer—softly, inevitably, and beneath the steady warmth of the sun him.

AUTUMN

By autumn, loving him feels inevitable—the same way leaves surrender to the wind once the season changes.

The air turns crisp. Summer withdraws in pieces—the fading hum of cicadas, the shortening evenings, the heat lifting at last. Trees begin to bronze at the edges. Gold starts gathering everywhere.

You start bringing a jacket every time you go out. Phainon forgets his constantly.

“You’ll freeze to death one day,” you tell him.

“You’re being dramatic!”

“I’m not? You’re cold right now.”

“I’m managing.”

“You’re literally shivering, Phainon.”

“I’m excited.”

You stare at him for a moment, unamused, before sighing and tugging your scarf free from around your neck. “Here.”

The smile on his face turns upside down. “You’ll get cold.”

“I’ll survive.”

For once, he doesn’t argue. He takes the scarf and wraps it around his neck gently. The gesture should mean nothing—it’s only fabric—and yet your heartbeat stumbles strangely afterward.

Autumn becomes a season of almosts.

Almost touching him when you walk side by side. Almost reaching for his hand. Almost saying something that would change everything. Instead, you continue like this—circling closer and closer around something neither of you name aloud.

You spend evenings inside cafes fogged with warmth and the scent of cinnamon. You wander through parks buried in amber leaves. You share roasted sweet potatoes from paper bags while cold wind slips through the streets.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Sometimes you let him.

One afternoon, the two of you miss your train on purpose.

Phainon glances at the closing doors and says, “That’s unfortunate.”

You look at the nearly empty platform and answer, “Really unfortunate.”

Then the two of you sit on a bench for the next half hour talking about nothing at all while dry leaves scrape across the concrete in restless little spirals.

You think, I could stay here forever, and the thought frightens you slightly. Not because it’s unpleasant, but because it feels true.

The sun sets earlier now. Evenings arrive before you’re ready for them.

One night, the two of you walk home beneath orange trees beneath the lampposts. Wind drifts through the branches overhead and leaves fall around you.

Phainon catches one absentmindedly before it reaches the ground. You watch him turn it over between his fingers.

“What?” he asks, noticing your stare.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m not.” You look away before he can say anything more.

The streets are quieter than usual. The cold has driven most people indoors. Your footsteps echo softly against the pavement. Then, Phainon says your name.

When you turn toward him, there’s something unreadable in his expression.

The wind moves gently between you. A leaf lands against the shoulder of his coat.

“I’m really glad I met you again that summer day,” he says.

The city feels very far away all at once.

“I’m happy I met you, too,” you answer.

Phainon smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Neither of you speak for a while after that. You continue walking side by side, close enough for your sleeves to brush every few steps. Close enough that it almost happens. Close enough that it will soon.

WINTER

The first snow arrives quietly.

You wake before dawn to a world gone pale. And for a moment, you don’t understand what feels different.

The city outside your window is usually restless even in the early hours—distant traffic, footsteps, voices carried upward through the streets—but this morning, everything sounds softened somehow. Then you look outside and see it.

Snow.

Without thinking, you reach for your phone. Before you can even type something out, a message appears.

Phainon: Look outside

You stare at it for a second before laughing quietly to yourself. Then—

Phainon: Meet me outside!

By the time you arrive, snow has begun gathering properly along the sidewalks.

Your breath fogs in front of you as you walk. The cold bites at your cheek and fingertips despite the gloves, but beneath it all is something bright and restless inside you that makes it difficult to feel the winter fully.

Phainon is already at the spot.

He stands beneath a streetlamp near the river, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat while snow drifts around him. When he notices you approaching, he smiles.

And there it is again—that feeling you’ve carried since summer. That blooming warm beneath your ribs as though some part of you has always been walking toward him.

“You’re late,” he says lightly once you reach him.

“You’ve been here for three minutes.”

“Five,” he corrects.

“That’s still not long enough to complain.”

“But it’s cold out here. I suffered tremendously.”

“You wanted to meet outside.”

He laughs and you shake your head at him.

You notice snow gathering in his hair. Without thinking, you reach up to brush it away.

The motion stills both of you.

Your hand lingers for a moment longer near his face before you pull your hand back slowly. Neither of you say anything about what just happened.

Phainon stares at you unlike the easy glances of summer or the lingering almosts of autumn. The look on his face is different—it feels like standing at the edge of something neither of you can return from.

“I used to hate winter,” he says all of a sudden.

You blink at him. “Why?”

“It always felt…” He ponders over the word. “Empty.”

“And now?”

You hold his gaze, and he smiles.

“Now it feels like this.”

Around you, snow falls soundlessly through the dark. Your heart beats so loudly you’re certain he must hear it.

Then Phainon laughs under his breath, small and disbelieving, like he just lost an argument with himself. “I think,” he says, “I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

The world stills. Not literally—the snow continues falling, the river continues moving, and somewhere far away, a train passes through the city—but all of it fades beneath the simple, devastating truth of those words. You look at him and you realize there was never going to be anyone else.

Spring brought him to you.

Summer let you bloom beside him.

Autumn taught you how to fall.

And winter lets you land.

“I think I’m in love with you, too,” you whisper.

The confession settles between you softly and warmly, as though it has been waiting for this moment all along. And for a moment, neither of you seem to know what to do with the enormity of it. At least not until Phainon steps closer.

His gloved hands rise to your face, fingertips brushing cold against your cheek, and you lean into the touch before you can think better of it. You feel the nervousness he’s trying to hide.

“You’re nervous,” you murmur.

When he smiles, it’s wobbly. And when he speaks, his voice wavers, “And I’m trying to kiss you.”

Your smile breaks helplessly and when he finally kisses you, it feels like the first fall of snow touching earth. And when you kiss him back, the whole world seems to quiet around you.

The snow continues to fall and winter settles gently over the city. And in the middle of it, with Phainon’s hands warm against your face and his heartbeat close enough to become familiar, you think—

So this is what it feels like to arrive.

© 2026 kominigiru.

a country bumpkin who decided to stay in the city after graduating with a (supposed) useless degree. a young man who spent his last credits to buy a low-quality mic, together with his second-hand gaming pc and obs webcam, he took his chances at breaking through the intimidating world of streaming.

he begins with sandbox games, long chill streams late at night after he was done working his ass off at his daytime corporate job. there were no viewers, but he can't fault in that when the frontpage of the streaming site are all well-established bigshots. it's difficult to find something new when one is so used to the sense of familiarity that their favorite streamer carries.

phainon tries flash games next, making fun of all the silly, borderline fetish art of beloved animation characters, but all that brought him were bots that got his hopes up, only to be cruelly let down when his chat was filled with nothing but advertisement spam.

well... third time's a charm.

phainon tries horror games. he plays the faces of the genre like resident evil, silent hill, amnesia. etc. to the short, obscure indie horror that he only heard through word of mouth in online forums. paired with his usual schedule of late-night streaming and a newly purchased better-quality mic, he feels like it'll get him somewhere this time.

this proves to be true when he gains his first ever viewer in the middle of him shooting down monster enemies. the loud ping from his chat entirely breaks his focus on the game, head swiveling to face the corner of his monitor where he can view the chatbar.

he reads your username out loud before your message, " "what are you playing right now?" oh! i'm playing resident evil 2! the remake, to be specific."

he grins at his webcam, all coy when he asks, "wanna keep watching? i'll be worth your time, i swear!"

when a handsome man with big, puppy dog eyes asks that of you, it's nearly impossible to say no. so type in the chatbar once more,

"sure, why not :)"

to your surprise, this streamer you found out in the wilderness of your recommended page, jumps up from his chair and fistbumps the air in glee. the suddent action makes you laugh. it makes him laugh too, his cheeks are dusted with pink by the time he sits back down. he clears his throat and resumes the game as if nothing ever happened.

you'll definitely be here tomorrow.

the first couple of months in phainon's streaming career, his only viewer was you. it feels less of a livestream and more of a videochat on discord with your friend with how often he refers to you while playing a game. he's moved on from horror games; now he's trying random ones each day.

before beginning a new game, he'll ask without looking at the chatbar, "you ready?" and then promptly calls your username. when he gets jumpscared or chased, he'll look at the chatbar and asks for you to come help him. during puzzles, he'll give his best puppy look as he fully expects you to solve it for him.

his viewers exceeded one (1) when phainon was one of the first ones to play an indie game that would soon blow up in popularity. he had found the game through the developer's social media account, added it to his steam wishlist, and played it on the day it came out.

the second time he streamed that indie game, he was awed at the whopping 2000 live concurrent viewers on his stream. he thanked everyone that was currently watching before his eyes zoned in at the chatbar, eyes sparkling as he called out your username, "are you still there? a-are you seeing this right now!?"

you laughed, pride blooming in your chest to see the once unknown streamer you've been watching for a while now take his first steps onto the grand stage of stardom. your fingers tingle in excitement as you type in,

"yes!! welcome everyone, phainon is an awesome streamer, i promise ^^"

another viewer typed, "phainon? is that neikos496's real name?"

oops. you forgot it's no longer just you and him in his livestreams anymore. before guilt could form in your guts, phainon laughs and waves his hand around.

"you're right about that, friend." he mentions your username. "they've been a long-time viewer of mine, you see. we're practically online friends now!"

he winks at his camera. "isn't that right?"

username.

there's a pattern to be found in how, as phainon's fame grows, so do his reliance on you. while before, his behavior of constantly paying attention to you was to be expected, seeing as you were his only viewer at that time, it tends to come off as odd now that his number of viewers is increasing day by day. he still retains old traditions by specifically calling out for your username and checking if you were ready before starting the game he was set on playing that day.

not to mention how he always singles out your chats, always making it a priority for him to read first amidst a sea of emote spammers and other people trying to grasp his attention. even the ones who paid for superchats are inherently stuck in second place the moment you send something to the chatbar.

sure. that's fine. loyalty and routine are good traits to have on a person, right? this just proves that despite his rising fame as a streamer, phainon is still the same man you met back then by staying to his roots. but it begins to slowly suffocate you with how much phainon demands from you, becoming bolder and bolder as his channel grows.

one time, you felt like lying back and observing him for the entirety of the stream, so you hadn't felt the need to type in anything to the chatbar. but an hour into his stream, he's still not playing any game.

after taking gulps from his water bottle, his blue eyes focus on his (newly acquired) second monitor, "chat, chat," he calls out, eyes skimming through the strings of text from different people pouring in. he says your username, "are they here yet? in the stream, i mean."

albeit confused, his viewers tell him no, having believed you weren't there yet with the lack of your usual chattiness. he visibly deflates into his gaming chair. "really? aw, well, we can wait for them before i start playing."

his chat bursts into confusion, spamming questions marks and many complaints to just begin the damn game already beginning to pop up. yet phainon remains undeterred, leaning back on his gaming chair with a slight frown on his face, fingers toying with his water bottle cap.

you straighten up, hurriedly typing in an effort to do damage control from the angry mob.

"heyyyy!! i've been here since the beginning TT TT start the game, neikos!"

akin to dangling a dog treat in front of a puppy, phainon excitedly leans in close to his screen and exclaims your username.

"you've been here all this time! why didn't you say anything? i was about to be sad, you know?" he pouts, bottom lip exaggeratedly jutting out. you nervously laugh, already imagining the curses thrown your way from his viewers.

"srry.... was quite drained from work today ^^;;;; so i didn't feel like typing much..."

then you hurriedly add, "but it's ok now!! let's get this party started .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·. "

phainon hesitates for a moment, seemingly wanting to say more. but then he blinks and returns his focus back to the game he was supposed to play.

in a quieter voice, he mutters, "next time, don't leave me waiting like that, okay? i was scared something happened to you..."

that's... (odd) fair. it must have shaken him quite a bit, being used to you so present and vocal in his streams.

so you go ahead and reassure him, "got it (●'◡'●)"

it's passed off as jokes at first; his fanbase online has an ongoing inside joke wherein phainon is dating you in private. it's not an unreasonable conclusion, and it'd make sense to an outsider just peering in from outside, but when phainon mentioned your username in a fanmeet event, the line between jokes and genuine belief is blurred. a shipping culture is born, and the flames are fanned further when a fan posts a screenshot of their profile being followed by phainon before it quickly gets unfollowed.

from a supposed friendship in the eyes of his many viewers, it quickly becomes uncomfortable for you when other fans begin mentioning you in the chatbar, asking for confirmation during phainon's livestreams.

you turn a blind eye to the best that you can. a deranged fan dming you, claiming to have spotted you and phainon out on a date, is quickly blocked. all variations of your shipname with phainon are muted from your timeline, and the accounts related to it are blocked as well.

but even that's not enough. eventually, you decide that it's best to forget this streamer altogether; you stopped attending his livestreams, you moved accounts, you changed usernames, and you wished him the best of luck with his career. not that he needed any if the rumors of him being invited to gamescom held an ounce of truth.

not even a week later, you wake to a dm request on your new account from a burner,

"hello, i didn't mean for the entire situation to quickly turn sour. and i am so sorry for dragging you into this mess when i should've been at the forefront defending you from harassment and hate. i understand that you're not quite ready to reveal our relationship to the public just yet, and i fully respect your decision.

my only wish is for you to go back to watching my streams, just like old times? i really miss you, and i find myself having difficulty playing when you're not there to cheer me on. my personal cheerleader, in a way :) they don't have to know it's you, i know you changed your username, after all. we can keep it secret. i can ignore your messages (but just know i read them and keep them close to my heart), i'll pretend that i'm not paying attention to you, anything.

i just miss you so much. come back to me soon. please, (y/n)?

i love you.

yours,

phainon."

... that's not your username he's typing. it's your real name that you never revealed to anyone online - not to him.

and what does phainon mean by keeping it private? you're not even dating - not once have you even met up with him in real life.