SkylerAFK

You’re more of a sunflower who basks in his sunlight and greedily soaks up all his affection. You’d hate to be the moon, for this meant you’d only rise when Phainon is gone – you prefer staying right by his side, a sidekick he can always count on. 

A sidekick wearing your heart on your sleeves, shy but never quite ashamed of the sincere feelings you’ve held for him growing up. A flower bud that slowly unfurls into a full bloom.

As your mother would lovingly refer to you both, you are: “Two birds of a feather!” 

Your childhood memories of Aedes Elysiae, blurry some of them may be, are bathed in everlasting gold. While Phainon dragged you off to go play heroes or look through Cyrene’s cards together, you remember dropping pollen of your romantic affection, scattered across planes of time like trails of breadcrumbs left for him to decipher. 

While the sun dipped into the horizon, you inched closer to him day by day, the fluttering in your heart evolves into a palpitation you can never stop, and small gifts handcrafted to show your admiration all gently whispered to him to ‘please, take the hint’. But reminiscent of an immovable stone, Phainon remained blissfully oblivious to the signs.

Cyrene certainly got them; her narrowing eyes and poorly hidden giggles as she sent you and Phainon away were enough of a testament. “I’m not feeling well today, you two can go on without me!”

You’d linger at the edge of her front yard, unsure how to proceed with her help. At Phainon’s call however, you move to follow him – “okay, phai!” – trying to contain the dandelion seeds dancing around in your stomach when he leads you by the arm, not letting go despite arriving at your destination. You didn’t want to let go either, even with the sweat building up in your palm. 

High school sprouts in your backyard as a tall and looming beanstalk that would force you both to grow up even more. 

Phainon’s high-pitched voice starts cracking like eggshells, making way for a deeper tone yet still carrying that warm lilt he always had. You grow taller, still incomparable to Phainon’s own growth spurt, but a good few inches nonetheless. Your sense of style reshapes itself, old interests thrown out for newer ones, and the patch of land where you’d all play heroes together becomes forgotten, the trampled blades of grass outgrowing their original length. 

You start favouring the comforts of your room over the blazing heat of the sun, beginning to find sweat as something you can’t stand and only coming out when Phainon pleads with you to do so. 

He shines brighter in High School – his presence a beaming beacon of light as he walks through the hallways and enters classrooms. Being the sunflower that you are, you faithfully stayed by his side. Fawning crowds come and go, you don’t. 

Your infatuation is exposed to those who aren’t Cyrene; childish people who never grew past the mental age of twelve tried to pick on you for always ‘Sticking to phainon like some damn leech! Don’t have any other personality traits or something?’ – the teasing didn’t last after Phainon punched one of them square in the face. His heroic act only dug your cove of feelings a little bit deeper. 

He’s your best friend and first love, a pillar of comfort you grew up with – you can’t imagine your life without Phainon. You pick up more hobbies, he joins more clubs he never expected he would, and you share your new life experiences with each other during lunch. Sometimes separated, but never for too long. 

Several months flicker by, and during one of your high school Valentine’s, you received gifts from men who aren’t just Phainon. 

Despite his locker overflowing with pink, glittery love notes and heart-shaped chocolates handmade out of sincerity, his gaze was pinned to the white envelope and bouquet of flowers you carried - neither of them is from him. His own gift is already hanging off your backpack, the cute sunflower keychain that it is. 

“From a friend?” He asks, finally closing his locker before he risks more glitter explosions on the ground.

“I doubt it,” He’s the only friend you have in this school, embarrassing it is to admit. Cyrene studies elsewhere. “But they’re cute.”

You see his tongue in cheek, and you dare let a seed of hope plant in the root of your heart. Is he… jealous? That makes you giddy. Tentatively, you ask, “You think so too, right, Phainon?”

He grimaces, glancing one last time at the items in your embrace before smiling, “Yeah, they are. Anyway, done with your locker? Let me carry your bag now.”

You nursed that seed of hope from then forth, slowly but steadily hoping more and more for the plausibility that he returns your feelings. It wouldn’t be too far off, surely – even if you’re not meant for each other in the end, you still want to try with him. You water that seed by dropping more subtle hints to Phainon, and you fertilize it by observing your best friend like an animal in a zoo, analyzing his minuscule actions and trying to correlate them to the mannerisms of ‘a guy with a secret crush on his best friend’.

To be young is to be naive. 

You didn’t need much. A simple ‘you should go for it! I’ve been rooting for you two since we were all children!’ from Cyrene carved out your decision to confess to Phainon near the end of high school. 

In the end, ripped straight from the dramas you watched out of curiosity, you confess to Phainon at the height of spring after getting your high school diplomas; the scent of flowers in full bloom makes you sick with nostalgia and nerves simultaneously. Your family is off conversing with his parents, while you dragged him to a secluded spot in the school. 

“Uhm… I’ve liked you for a long time now, Phainon. I’m not expecting you to return my feelings but…” You leave it open-ended, too afraid to settle your confession definitively. You love him, actually - but love is a strong word that some don’t like to acknowledge. For his sake, you won’t either. 

A warm, gentle spring can never stay for too long. In the same breath, you, too, are forced to abandon the sunlight you’ve known for several years at the sound of his discordant chuckle – the awkward smile etched on his face as his eyes could only look down at you in what you assume to be pity. You avert your gaze from his blue eyes, opting to stare into his birthmark instead. 

“Hey, of course I like you too - you’re my best friend! But we can always stay as friends, (Y/N). You’re dear to me, you know  – maybe not… like that, I just don’t want things to change between us.”

You experience the first and biggest heartbreak of your life just hours after graduating from High School. Your best friend Phainon does not reciprocate your feelings and instead wishes for your relationship to stay the same, locked into the tight box of ‘close friends’ he never plans on breaking. The seed-turned-plant of hope in your heart withers down to a sad, pathetic, dried-out flora. 

That’s okay. You’ll be attending the same college as him, located far, far away – even if it’s not, you have to be okay. 

After a few tense seconds of utter silence, you smile – the most carefree smile you can muster in that moment before enthusiastically nodding at him, “I get it! Don’t worry, Phainon. I totally get it. Uh, hey, I think Cyrene’s calling me. I have to take this phone call for a bit, okay? Let’s meet again later!” 

You bury that confession six feet under in your backyard, covered and only seen by inches of soil as you maintain your close friendship with Phainon. Best friends, close friends, friends - you are not to cross these labels unless you want to lose your close companion. 

The months of free time leading up to college are nothing unusual, you spend it as you would in the past: Phainon picking you up on the front porch to spend the entire day together. It’s either his or your room where you’ll pour sweating buckets over study materials and banter over multiplayer games on his console.

Your heart still beats like drums just being in his vicinity alone, and it took you days of preparation to act like you’re unbothered when he invites you to his room – the walls and shelves containing time capsules from years before. Pressed white daisies you gifted him on his 10th birthday peeks out as his bookmark, and your kindergarten doodle of him as the sun proudly hangs above his bed, displayed as if it’s an artifact from the Belobog museum. 

The most heartwrenching item is the printed photo sitting on his desk: it’s little him kissing little you’s frosting-smudged cheek at your 10th birthday party. The shock on your face is captured and frozen in time, a memory you both laugh about every month or so. 10th birthday… It’s the same age you realized you see him as more than a friend. 

Seeing it for the umpteenth time never fails to steal the air from you; the ache never gets easier. You wish you could truly put these romantic feelings to rest in a coffin and seal it shut with a lid, never to be opened again. 

“Phainon, next time… let’s spend the day in my room.”

Seeing bits and pieces of you scattered around his room hurts more than him verbally rejecting you. 

He grins, all teeth and gums, “Sure!”

Even branches grow into a tree of their own, just as a fledgling must leave its nest. 

Spring came and went, high school a chapter closed, and you’re now faced with attending school – college, you remind yourself  – an ocean away from the familiar warmth of Aedes Elysiae. The wheat fields that were once taller than you, and Phainon’s house right next door, are all left behind momentarily. You can’t pocket your hometown to bring with you in Penacony, but at least you still have Phainon. 

“Everything all settled?” He gently lets go of your dorm’s wooden table, finally in its correct position, “This layout is fine, right?”

“It is,” You hand him a towel, itching to help with wiping off his sweat, “Thanks, Phainon. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to, anything for you.” Anything for his dear best friend. He bumps your side before sitting down on the living room couch. You wanted him to stick around for a while longer, but he’s already out your door the moment he hears knocking – (‘Oh, your roommate is here! I need to go now, remember to call me if you need help, okay?’ he pats your shoulder on the way out). 

The patch of skin he briefly touched is still tingling when you see someone walk into the living room, luggage trailing right behind. A tall man with shoulder-length gray hair and kind yellow eyes bows at you in greeting. He’s wearing a white cardigan with a blue sweater layered on top, the color alone reminds you of your best friend despite the difference in shades.

“Hello, pardon my sudden entrance.”

“...Hi.” You don’t know how to talk to people beyond Phainon and Cyrene - standing around here is making you shy. “Uhm, my name is (Y/N)... And you are…?”

“I am Sunday,” His hand extends for a handshake, and you hesitantly follow suit. “It’s nice to meet you. I sincerely hope we get along.”

You nod, staring back into pools of liquid gold while shaking his hand,  “...Yeah, let’s. And please don’t mind the succulents on the windowsill.”

II. A close-knit friendship withers in winter, in its place is a new one.

Much to your relief, your late-night fears of college drifting you and Phainon apart never come to fruition. It has the opposite effect, to your surprise. While not overdramatically countries away, Phainon’s dorm room is located a floor above - a notable difference from when he lived right next door to you. The added distance often has him visiting your dorm room unprompted (you kindly gave him a spare key in case of emergencies) and easily greeting a confused Sunday who just finished his classes for the day.

“Call me your third roommate – don’t worry, I help around!” He’d joke. Using your headband to push his hair back, wearing a baggy tee and gray sweatpants, he makes himself at home. Sometimes doing his own homework or brings his gaming laptop along. 

After the initial surprise, Sunday doesn’t mind his company – you certainly don’t. 

Phainon waits for you outside your room to walk you to your class. He makes sure you sit next to him in the classes you share. He insists you join the same org as him, and predictably, you do. 

You thought you buried your less-than-platonic feelings in your backyard; you truly did. But Phainon has your heart racing in excitement, rekindling the dying plant of hope. You still like him – truthfully, you never stopped liking him. But he’s closer to you now, a feat you previously thought to be impossible. The distance of just one floor away makes the heart grow fonder. Dare you say, clingy? 

But he still remains your best friend. A clingy, touchy one – but your best friend. 

Sunday discusses the topic on a slow, school-less night. You’re in the living room finishing up the last plates needed to be washed when he suddenly chimes in, tone so sure of his words, “Ah yes, I remember now. Please tell your boyfriend to stop entering our dorm past 11 PM. The faculty recently deployed a curfew; it’s best we follow it.”

The ceramic plate in your grasp almost crashes headfirst to the floor. Out of embarrassment, you refuse to turn around and face your roommate. Boyfriend. Boyfriend – only one person is a repeat visitor in your dorm room, and he’s nowhere near being your boyfriend.

Meekly, you set the plate down and correct him, “I’ll inform him, but… Phainon isn’t my boyfriend.”

The silence that wafts through is more humiliation added onto your person. What is Sunday’s facial expression right now? Shocked? Ashamed? 

He answers it for you: “I see… This is quite mortifying, my sincere apologies.” 

But he continues, “You’re both seen together, and he visits you so often, not to mention the look you give him, I got the idea that…– I’ll be sure to be more observant in the future. Again, my apologies.”

You’re wiping the table clean when you reply, still angling your face away from his eyes, “It’s cool, don’t worry! No harm done! He and I are best friends, yes… the bestest of friends!”

You feel him raise a brow at that, “I don’t mean to pry, however…”

Cyrene always chided you for being a pushover to those around you. In this instance, you hear her disapproving frown when you fold like a wet blanket, “Whatever it is you’re thinking –! I-it’s probably right.”

Wilted sunflower that you are, you mournfully face him with your eyes cast to the floor. 

“Ah. You like him?”

You slowly nod, a small part relieved that you now have someone other than Cyrene and Phainon to confide in. “Don’t tell him, please…”

“I won’t.”

His bird-patterned socks enter at the edge of your vision. You slowly look up. Sunday is smiling at you, although a bit tense. 

“Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous of me considering we’ve only known each other for months, but… They say I’m a good listener. If you don’t mind, could you tell me more?”

Sunday is a Borage you unknowingly planted, only just now peaking when you need him most. Sitting side by side on your dorm’s small couch, you gain an outsider’s perspective on your years-long pining toward your best friend. He hears of your rejection and your still-persisting feelings. In the end, the advice he offered to you is:

“He may not be stringing you along, but you still foster optimism in your heart. So long as you have it, you will never move forward past him. If you ask me… confess your love a second time; see if his opinion has changed.”

You gulp, “And if it doesn’t?”

He smiles, gentle as clouds, “Broaden your horizons permanently. Distance yourself if you must; your friendship will pick up once you settle your feelings.”

Winter break is soon; you’ll need to go back to Aedes Elysiae in a few months’ time. However…

“If it’s not too much. A-and I understand if you don’t want to! But, could I ask you to…”

Sunday’s words continuously ring in your mind, repeating circles of “confess your feelings” and “move on,” bouncing off of one another. Coincidentally, Sunday is out for the afternoon when Phainon barges in a week later. Something about groupmates and ‘I wish you were in my group’ going one ear and out the other as you nod at him in autopilot. 

He picks up on your unusual behavior not even ten minutes in: brows raised to the sky and eerily getting close and personal with you, surveying your face like it’d shed off all the information he wanted. He retracts a few seconds later, less joking when he inquires, “Something on your mind? Missing Aedes Elysiae?”

Hanging out in your small room like this, laptop opened to play some pirated action movie, and his class notes scattered around your bedsheets like autumn leaves… 

You shake your head, feeling the moment to follow Sunday’s advice is now. This is the perfect timing – no one else around to see your heartbroken face for a second time, and no Cyrene to find out you’re still hung up on him. 

“Phainon, I…”

He shuffles closer to hear you better – traitorously, your heart clenches in affection. 

“Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, screwing your eyes shut, “I think I still like you.”

You downplay your feelings for the sake of self-preservation.

His breath hitches, “Ah, that’s–”

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, remorseful at how uncomfortable he must be right now, “I really tried, but…” A deep breath, “I’ll move on from you soon, I promise.”

“Oh,” He pauses, staring anywhere but you, “Uhm… sure… I’m glad to have you, you know?”

You nod, too fragile to face him. 

“...You’re my first and dearest friend. I truly, really liked you, Phainon.” You love him so, so much.

“You’re dear to me too, (Y/N). Forever and now.”

You’ve heard of an overseas concept where a person in an unrequited love begins to sprout flowers from within. You feel like that’s happening to you right now with how unbearable heartbreak is – yellow carnations form from your bleeding heart, wormwood seizes your lungs in a tight embrace, and pink roses mix with your innards. You’d cough out the feeling if you could; empty your stomach from all the flowers and be done with it.  

Predictably, he’s quiet for the rest of the movie – immediately coming up with an excuse to leave your dorm room once the end credits begin rolling in. You break down into tears the moment the lock clicks in place. You cry for hours, long enough for Sunday to come knocking on your door, just knowing you managed to do it when he readily offers you one of his giantmoa pudding tarts. 

Eyes puffy and snot stubbornly running down your nose, you take a bite and thank him through a mouthful of pastry. It’d taste better if you weren’t so heartbroken. He gently rubs your shoulder in comfort. 

“It’ll be alright.”

He’s right– But Phainon has always been by your side, rain or shine. The following months of his absence from your life will be akin to traversing a dark forest with no light source.

But there’s light at the end of the tunnel; a rainbow at the end of the storm. When Sunday bans you from helping with chores that night, you know your heart will heal in time.

“Thanks a lot… sunny.” 

He sighs in mock exasperation, “I see you’ve picked up on that nickname too.”

The sun: Hey

The sun: I came by to pick you up, but for some reason, your roommate’s lying?? He said you’re not going back to aedes elsysiae this winter break??? And even denied me entry??? 

The sun: crazy right

The sun: I’m right outside waiting for you rn

The sun: do you need help packing up? :) 

You: No

You: He’s telling the truth.

You: I won’t be visiting for now. Maybe next semester break?

The sun: what

You haven’t read his one-word reply when your phone screen transitions to his contact photo with the text ‘The sun is calling…’ displayed below. You sigh, reluctantly sliding to accept.

Even with speakers turned off, you hear him without pressing your phone against your ear: “What do you mean? Did something happen? Don’t tell me you and Auntie got into a fight…! Don’t worry! I’ll act as the middleman like usu-”

“Uhm, Phainon.” You cut him off. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothing like that, please don’t worry.”

He makes a sound of confusion, painfully close to a whimper, “So then… why aren’t you visiting our hometown with me?”

‘Because you’ll be there’. “I’m busy with some personal matters here, don’t worry about me. Say hi to Snowy for me, okay?”

“No, I’m absolutely worrying about you – why not? We can visit them next week instead if you’re busy! Why… why miss out on the entire winter break? Won’t you be lonely here?”

“No need, really! Enjoy aedes elysiae for me. And I won’t be lonely… so stop worrying so much, you softie. I have sunny with me.”

“Sunny…? Your… roommate? Sunday? He’s staying here for winter break, too?” He sounds choked up from disbelief; you’d laugh if you weren’t battling against your resurfacing feelings from talking to him on the phone. “Sunday?”

“Yes, he’ll take care of me. I swear!”

“...”

“...Phainon? Hello?” Did the call end already? You glance at your screen, frowning in confusion when you see that the call is still ongoing. Is he lagging on his end? But he’s outside of your dorm. 

“If you need anything,” He suddenly speaks up, “Anything – call me, please. If your roommate makes you sad or uncomfortable, tell me right away, okay? I’ll call you again the moment I’m back in aedes elysiae. Stay safe, I love you.”

You flinch at his admission, knowing he didn’t mean it like that. “I know… safe travels, Phainon.”

“Phai.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Phai. Isn’t that what you used to call me when we were kids? Why’d you stop? Let’s bring it back.” 

You lie on your bed, pondering. Why did you stop? Perhaps since it was a nickname from childhood, you let go of it and hoped Phainon would see you more than just… his friend since diapers. It didn’t work, clearly. So you don’t mind calling him that shortened version of his name again. 

“Okay… Safe travels, Phai.”

Despite your emboldened decision to ask Sunday to stay with you for winter break, you are still, at your core, a floundering, unsociable person. You have your moments of being bold and talkative, but it’s covered by leaves of quietude and slight stutters. Socializing is not your strong suit. You’re not at the stage of being totally buddy-buddy with your roommate, but you’re slowly getting there. 

You’re glad you met Sunday. Had it not been for him, you’d still be stuck hopelessly waiting for a day that’ll never come: a phantom of the past who’s deathly afraid of the future. 

In the span of your one-month winter break, you get to know him better. Your roommate, who’s a good listener is also an older brother to an idol trainee, has a trio of friends who roomed together a floor below, likes sweet treats, and ran away from his adoptive home after graduating high school.

Your profound respect for him only continued to grow, stalking across your shared living space like vines. While Phainon’s frequent messages, consisting of photos of Snowy and with your family, make your heart twinge in longing, you start ignoring them for the sake of progress. He’ll understand why a year from now, and you’ll both laugh about it like the pair of best friends that you are. 

It’s not college that severs you and Phainon – it’s you yourself, but cutting off a branch from your tree does not mean it’s not allowed to grow a new one elsewhere. 

III. Regret burgeons when everything is said and done.

Phainon: I feel like you’ve been ignoring me lately

Phainon: did i upset you?

Phainon: :( 

The Gen Ed courses you took unfortunately landed you in some shared classes with Phainon, the ‘sunny’ side is that they’re coincidentally shared with Sunday and his friends too. While anxious to meet them, he thoroughly reassured you that they’re nice people.

“Just a bit… loud sometimes, I hope you don’t mind.”

You don’t – anything to physically get away from Phainon. The one-month winter break may have taught you to rely on him less, but seeing his face again might cause you to fold like paper. You see his unanswered texts when you close your eyes, and you hear his voice right before falling asleep. You miss him, but you know what must be done. When he visited you on the day he left Amphoreus, you and Sunday worked together to pretend that no one was home when he came knocking. 

He stayed for hours before going up to his own floor. 

Sunday sits on your left, and Stelle (A kind woman who is equal parts loud and quiet) on the other. Your new acquaintances, Dan Heng and March, are a row ahead. 

“I’m telling you, (Y/N)! His nickname really is cold dragon young!” March cackles in glee, making sure to point at Dan Heng in case you mistake him for someone else.

He sighs, pushing down her finger, “That was years ago, ignore her.”

Stelle chimes in, lazily putting her arm around your shoulder and whispering, “Because he had a gachalife phase.”

Cold dragon young hisses at her to shut up, only to serve as fuel for their cackling. Entertained, you let out a few quiet chuckles at their display. You can never be happy for too long – the classroom door soon creaks open, familiar tufts of white hair peeking in not a moment later. The realization that it’s undoubtedly Phainon has you clammoring in your seat, sitting rigidly in attention. 

Sunday gently rubs your back, eases you back to your current circle,  “Sorry…!”

“It’s okay,” Sunday whispers back, sharing a glance with you. 

“Ah, (Y/N)! There you are! …And everyone too, hello!” Phainon greets from up front, hastily picking up his pace to approach your group. Facing you, he wastes no time firing question after question, “Where were you yesterday? I waited around and tried the key you gave me, but it never worked. Did your phone break? I couldn’t contact you at all, I was so worried!”

You smile at him, “Phai, it’s nice to see you again. Sorry, we replaced our door lock with a new key for uhm… security reasons, I’ll try to get you a copy sometime. And no… my phone isn’t broken, I was just busy, that’s all!”

He audibly sighs in relief, “...Really? That’s good, I’m glad – I missed you a lot, you know?” Adjusting his bag strap, he nods to the unoccupied seats in the first row, “Come on, let’s sit.”

Stelle speaks for you, “Oh, she’s sitting with us.”

“Hm? Right! Thank you for taking care of my best friend, but we’ll get going now–”

“No, I mean she’ll be sitting with us for this class.” 

Phainon cocks his head, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

You meekly affirm, “I’m… sitting with them. Uh, they’re really nice people, Sunny introduced me to them!”

“Huh?” He looks like a lost puppy on the verge of being abandoned, “...But our seats?”

“I’ll try to sit with you next class!”

You never do: you sit next to Sunday in every single one of them and ignored the bewildered look on his face each time. 

He beelines for you after dismissal, blue eyes so eager and pleading when he asks you,  “Let’s get dinner together – my treat? It feels like I haven’t seen you in centuries.”

Only for you to scratch the back of your neck while shyly glancing at Sunday, “Uhm… we already made plans after school. Sorry, Phai.”

“Oh.” He steps back, letting you and Sunday pass by him to exit the room. His blue eyes follow you until they can no longer. He’s left with himself when he mutters a bitter:

“I get it.”

“Let me carry that for–Ah, Sunday…?”

He’s a second too late, but Phainon stubbornly clings to your bag’s front pocket, the very bag that the other man is already carrying. You’re still in the bathroom when the professor dismisses the class.  Wanting to do his usual duties, Phainon intended to carry your bag, but… someone already beat him to it. He smiles at him, polite, “Thank you friend, but this is my thing, if you’d kindly–”

Sunday’s lips curve into what seems to be a subtle mocking smile. He adjusts the bag closer to him before replying in a composed manner, “How chivalrous of you, Mister Phainon. However, it’s not needed. See? I can carry it for her.”

Phainon sees it as clear as day. 

Childishly, Phainon thinks he can carry it better than he can. It’s what he always did for you since he still had some front teeth missing from his smile; it’s his duty, not your roommate’s. 

He reluctantly lets go when you come up to thank Sunday, blatantly ignoring him just a few feet away. He enthusiastically greets you, but he still exists as an imaginary concept in your eyes. What’s going on? He ponders, watching you chat the world away with Sunday. What happened before that winter break that caused you to grow so tremendously close to that guy? 

You said you’d give him a new copy of your dorm room, but you’re ignoring his texts, his existence, and now – letting someone else do his usual tasks. Seriously, what gives?

Sunday’s like a parasite attached to your hip, it unnerves and angers him. 

Are you… trying to replace him? His heart threatens to drop just thinking about it. 

You are.

You really are trying to replace him. 

Sunday sits next to you, Sunday lives with you, Sunday eats with you, Sunday talks with you, Sunday texts with you, Sunday laughs with you – Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Every time Phainon is graced with your presence, it’s quick to sour from your notable companion by your side. Your new circle of friends too, Phainon sees it clear as day: you don’t want to be around them all the time, but you’re peer pressured into doing so. If Phainon was by your side… he would never let that happen to you. He’d punch them into blindness should they dare to make you inconvenienced. 

Two birds of a feather – that’s what your mother called him and you; A pair of friends so close you might as well be surgically joined together in the middle. When Seven-year-old Phainon first reached his hand out to you, his brain made the unconscious decision then: you’d be the sole irrevocable part of his life. Flowers bloom and wilt; they experience a death of their own, but under Phainon’s sunlight, he promised that he’d never let a sunflower like you be anything less than thriving.

He leads and you follow, only so he’d be the one to be hurt when braving the unknown. Scraped knees and bruised patches of skin are nothing because you’re not hurt. He shines so you can comfortably hide under the shade – you’re not one for people, he’s fine with the way you are. He adjusts around your existence, a mold of comfort that perfectly fits none but you. He’s your fighter and protector; sword and shield. 

Skipping rocks on a nearby lake, teasing Cyrene together, learning from her cards, and discovering a poor abandoned puppy who’d eventually be named ‘Snowy’ are all flashing strings of gold in his memories. Moments carefully planted in his own backyard and given regular maintenance lest he start neglecting them. 

He loves you, of course he does. There is nothing purer in this world than his love for you; a flower specially nursed and plucked with the greatest care, a beauty unparalleled for it’s fertilized from the attention you give him. 

His room is centered around you; every item given is meticulously stored and given a special place. The polaroids, your kindergarten doodles, the yellow crayon you gave him, your pressed flowers – he still has it, even brought it along to his dorm room, where he’s embraced by your presence every night before sleep. 

He loves you, he knows this well in his heart. But Phainon is simply not worthy of you. His love for you is pure, but he, as a person, is not. A Sun can also be damaging to a sunflower – he is the filth to your pure, the actual darkness to light. 

Is it because he refused your confession?

He preserves you because no one in this world deserves you, but must you go ahead and leave him for dead after finding a different sun to seek sunlight from? Sunday… What does he have that Phainon does not? Is he the better him? Does he treat you kinder than he does? 

Sunday is far from holy. If anything, he’s the snake trying to lure you to ruin. You don’t know any better, hence why Phainon is around to protect you. 

This is the biggest hurdle you’ve ever faced together, and with his heart being torn to pieces by your own gardening tools, he’ll make it right. He always goes. He’ll make it right, he’ll get you back, and you two can go back to the way you were before – just more. Friends, best friends, lovers, and everything in between, he’ll really give it all to you. 

Sunday… he’s poisoned your mind and rotted your pure soul. 

IV. Desperation is a seed planted long, long ago – still, spring has come.

“Thank you for sticking around me, Phai.”

He’s in the middle of starting a pathetic fire using twigs and stone when you blurt out cryptic words beside him. He hums, continuing his work, “What do you mean?”

“Can’t I just say thank you!?” You fluster, quickly standing up and pacing around the edge of the forest you’ve both designated as your ‘camping spot’. “Mama said it’s nice to thank people! So, uhm- Thank you for being my friend, please never stop being my best friend!”

“‘Course I won’t!” Phainon toothily grins, fluffy white hair gaining a slight bounce from his motions, “Actually, I’ll never abandon you. Ever!”

You perk up like a sunflower dancing in the wind, “Really!?”

The fire finally sparks to life, small and flickering, but there. At the same time, he gazes deep into your eyes, only knowing nothing else but sincerity at such an age, “Yeah! I swear!”

A yelp, “Swearing is bad!”

Phainon’s eyes blearily blink open. His dorm room ceiling greets him first thing in the morning.

Phainon stalks and waits like a deep-rooted willow tree. He strikes you when he knows you’re alone. It all falls into place: Sunday’s trainee sister is dropping by a different part of the city over the weekend; logic dictates that he won’t be coming back to his dorm room until then. Your close proximity to Sunday will momentarily halt, and Phainon is free to slither in.

He’s waiting right outside your dorm room when you come walking down the long hallway, body language all languid, even resting against the paint-chipped-off stone pillar while scrolling through his social media feed,

You’d spot him a mile away, and seeing him without Sunday by your side makes you hesitate all the more. Your stupid heart starts speeding up. 

“I just want to talk,” He calls out, pocketing his phone to spread his arms wide open for a hug, “I miss you, is that too much to ask?”

You slowly approach him, “...No, I missed you too.”

You miss him. You miss him. You miss him. You’ve been holding your sunflower keychain as your nightly comfort or else you’d end up calling his number at 2AM. 

Phainon smiles, “Really?”

“Yes… I just got… busy, that’s all.”

He smiles wider, blue eyes turning into blue crescent moons, “Really?”

“...Yes.” His hand gently pries the keys out of your hand; you let him.

You hear Sunday screaming on your shoulder, telling you that your blase facade is quickly falling apart at the seams. Unaffected, unmoved – you’re nothing of the sort right now. You’re a sunflower who’s been starved of sunlight for too long. 

With a click, he opens the door for you and softly murmurs, “You’ve been hurting me a lot, (Y/N). You know that, right? But I understand, it’s not your fault.”

You step inside, letting him lock the door behind you, “Not… my fault?”

He shakes his head, hands firmly grasping your shoulders to sit you down on the small couch, “No, it’s mine.”

Immediately you protest, “That’s not true. We just drifted apart–”

Once more, he shakes his head before dropping to his knees before you. The sudden action makes you flinch, growing more uncertain when he holds your hand in his. Phainon’s eyes remind you of butterfly peas from up this close. 

He’s quiet when he speaks, a deep rasp overtaking his voice, “...You don’t understand: I miss you.”

You understand what he means. Parting from Phainon is disorienting. Sunday and his friends may have managed to fill the gaping hole in your heart, but it’s incomparable to Phainon’s presence. 

Are you a bad person for not finding satisfaction in your new friends? Are you sick in the end to still crave Phainon after being rejected two times? Is this what you get for sticking by his side for so long?

It probably is. 

He continues speaking, “I’m sorry for pushing you away; that was never my intention. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re dear to me – you truly are. I never wanted to pursue a relationship with you because, I– I’m too lowly for you. I would only taint you.”

You run your fingers through his hair, reminiscing on all the nights you spent crying over him – it still bleeds like fresh wounds, “That’s ridiculous, Phainon. I’m not some holy figure to taint. I was just a girl in love with her best friend.”

“I know, but you… you don’t understand. You’re everything to me.”

“You’re everything to me, too, that’s why I loved you.” You still do.

“I think of you first thing in the morning. I brush my hair wondering how I’ll spend the day with you, I eat breakfast, thinking what yours was at that moment, I kept the homework you threw out. I always hate it when I talk to people who aren’t you. I still have the twigs you gave me during our 6th-grade camping trip. The reason the pressed flowers you were planning on giving out during high school graduation went missing is that I stole them – I didn’t want anyone else owning a piece of you. I make sure you’re always too shy to stand up for yourself, so I can save you. I… I hate Sunday for getting into your head – it should only be me. I should be the one you hate and love. I – you’re everything to me.”

His grip tightens, blunt fingernails leaving indents on your own fingers, “I’m sorry, please take me back. I’m unworthy, but I don’t want you to be happy with anyone else. I started cutting myself when you refused to go back to Aedes Elysiae with me – I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not by your side. Please. I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I really will.”

You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.

If Phainon is the sun that will incinerate you and your sunflower petals for getting too close, the question it poses is: Do you let it consume you whole? To forgive and forget, starting a new chapter anew in the process?

kill yourself or let (y/n) have friends and move on from you

You stared. "…Yet?"

He nodded as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

After that, the stories changed.

No more childhood memories. Instead, he started talking about your future.

"Next Tuesday your professor will cancel class."

"Your friend Mina will spill coffee on your notes tomorrow."

"You'll take an extra shift at the gas station this week."

Total nonsense, obviously. You laughed it off.

Yep, definitely a hooligan. You labeled him in your mind.

But he said this nonsense so many times you accidentally memorized the lines.

Which is why, when your coworker opens her mouth, your stomach drops.

"Hey, you're on night duty today."

"What? No I'm not!"

She pouts. "Oh, come on!! Please cover this shift for me, I promise I'll make it up to you."

You owe me three other times already.

She begs and begs. Eventually you sigh.

"Fine."

The second the word leaves your mouth, your chest goes cold.

Because you've heard this before.

From him.

Night shifts at the gas station are the worst. Too quiet. Too empty. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional owl from the forest behind the store.

You hate working during these hours, it gave you the creeps. The feeling of being watched.

The bell above the door jingles.

A middle-aged man stumbles in, his walk wobbly. Even from behind the counter, you can smell the alcohol, signaling to you that he must be drunk.

Great.

You force a customer service smile as he approaches. "Good evening, sir, can I help—"

"You."

He points a shaky finger at your face.

"Where's that other wench that works here? Why isn't she here tonight?"

Your blood goes cold.

Word for word.

“Sir, can I help you buy something?” Your voice came out thin. Small. “Maybe some water? Coffee?”

“Don’t ignore me!” He slapped the counter. The bottle in his hand—wine, red wine, just like he said—swung through the air. “I asked you a question!”

You fumbled for the phone in your pocket. But it was too slow. The drunk man was already coming around the side of the counter, eyes wild, breath sour.

“Damn it, stop ignoring me!”

Suddenly he's right in front of you. His hand lifts a wine bottle high in the air, aimed straight at your head.

You can't move. Can't think. Just that same sentence echoing over and over.

You'll be attacked at night in the gas station.

You saw it coming. Saw the arc of it, the way the light caught the green glass. You knew what was about to happen, yet you still couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but close your eyes and scream— “AAHHHH”

SLAM.

The sound followed. Not glass breaking. Not your skull caving in.

A body hitting the far wall.

The crashing sound of shelves collapsing. Candy bars and chip bags and cheap lighters scattering across the floor.

Then silence.

“It’s okay,” The soft, familiar voice quietly whispers. “Open your eyes. I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t believe the thought that crossed your mind. The voice you’d grown used to hearing… for the first time, you were actually relieved to hear.

You hesitate. Then slowly… you do.

You opened your eyes.

The drunk man was crumpled against the opposite wall, groaning, the wine bottle shattered beside him. And standing between you and him—calm, unhurried, brushing dust off his sleeve—was the hooligan.

His smile was gentle.

Lovesick.

Like he hadn’t just thrown a full-grown man across a convenience store.

“Don’t be afraid.” He stepped closer, “I said I got you.”

You, however, couldn’t speak. Could only stare as he reached over the counter and took your shaking hands in his. His palms were warm. Steady.

"I got here a little earlier this time," he says thoughtfully.

"Last time you needed stitches." He mutters to himself.

Your blood turns to ice.

Last time?

He steps closer to the counter, resting his arms on it casually. As if this were just a normal visit. Like he's done this a thousand times before.

His gaze softens as he looks at you.

“Do you believe me yet?” He laughed softly, like this was all some private joke between the two of you. Meanwhile his eyes never left your face. Hungry. Adoring. Wrong.

You can't answer. Your brain is still stuck on last time.

He chuckles quietly, and tilts his head. Watching your face with lovesick patience.

Then his voice drops to something gentler. Something terrifyingly certain.

"Good. Now all you have to do… is fall for me a little faster this time."

You gawked at him in horror.

“Don’t worry,” he added in a quiet murmur.

Always politely. Always thoughtfully. Thanking you for reading. Asking what parts you liked the most.

Maybe it’s because of how much you’ve been spamming his account with comments that he noticed. But it still felt nice how the author kept interacting with you, genuinely interested in your opinion.

So you kept commenting.

On every story.

Every chapter.

Every little drabble he posted.

And somehow… he always found your comment in the small crowd of replies.

Eventually, he started posting photos of himself alongside his updates.

That was when the follower count exploded.

Apparently, people liked seeing the face behind the stories.

He was handsome, simple as that. Soft-looking, gentle in the way he smiled at the camera. The kind of face people shared around easily.

Within weeks, the account that once had almost no attention was overflowing with it.

Comments poured in under every post.

Some praised his writing.

Many more praised his looks.

He kept posting stories like always, occasionally attaching a selfie to the update. It was probably a smart move. The attention only kept growing.

In one of those selfies, the background looked oddly familiar. For a second you almost thought it resembled a street near your workplace.

But that was impossible… so you ignored the thought. Shoving it to the back of your mind.

And if you had to admit… the face reveal did change things a little.

It was easier to picture the author behind the words now.

And maybe it made the stories feel just a bit more personal. More intimate.

But even with hundreds of new followers…

He still replied to you.

Without fail.

Your comment.

Every time.

It became a little routine.

You read his story. You left your thoughts. He replied.

It was so simple and comfortable, this consistent interaction between you both.

Until one week you got busy.

Work had been exhausting. Long shifts, late nights. You barely had time to check your phone at all.

You didn’t read the new story he posted.

You didn’t comment either.

A few days passed like that.

When you finally opened the app again, you had a message waiting for you.

In your inbox, It was a DM from him.

“Hey.” ”You haven't commented in a while.” “Are you alright?”

You blinked at the screen.

It was… oddly personal. It gave you the chills to know this now popular author had noticed your absence, despite the large crowd of other readers and commenters.

But you pushed the feeling away, maybe he was just being nice. Objectively this small message really is nice, he’s asking about the readers’ wellbeing.

So you replied.

“Sorry! Work has been really busy lately.”

You stared at the message for a moment before sending it.

The second you did, the typing indicator appeared.

He must have been online already, you told yourself.

His response came almost immediately.

“I’m glad you're okay.” “I was worried.”

After that, things started feeling different.

His replies to your comments grew longer.

More attentive.

Sometimes he referenced little things you had mentioned weeks ago.

Your job… Your schedule… The time you usually read his posts…

Once he even joked about the coffee you always grabbed before work. Something you were pretty sure you’d never actually mentioned in a comment.

Other fans started noticing too. It was hard not to notice, his interaction with the other readers were never this detailed. In fact, he hasn’t been replying to the other comments at all.

People occasionally replied under your comments.

“How do you know him?”

“Why does he only reply to you?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. None of it made sense to you either. Is this some kind of loyalty the author was showing for being his first follower?

The questioning replies were starting to increase along with his fame. Eventually the attention started making you uncomfortable.

So you stopped commenting.

Just for a little while, you told yourself. Maybe the attention would die down.

You muted notifications and avoided opening the app entirely.

It was easier that way.

Quieter.

A week passed just like that.

Then another.

And it was already a month before you knew it.

One evening, out of habit, you opened the site again.

His newest story sat at the top of your feed. You clicked on it without thinking. The whole action was basically ingrained in your mind after daily check-ins like a routine.

At first it seemed like any other story he wrote. Soft tone, gentle pacing, his unique writing style. Nothing really seemed to change in the last month you didn’t check in.

But as you kept reading…

Your stomach slowly dropped. Shivers despite the weather enveloped you.

The main character was a woman.

She worked your exact job.

Her schedule matched yours perfectly.

Her habits. Her little routines. The way she stopped for coffee before work.

Even the way her appearance was described screamed familiar. Oddly specific…

Every detail was right.

Too right.

It wasn’t just inspired by you.

It was you.

You scrolled to the top of the page again, your fingers suddenly cold.

Then you noticed the dedication line above the story.

For my favorite reader.

Your phone buzzed with a notification.

A new message.

From him.

You hesitated before opening it.

“I was worried when you stopped reading.”

How did he know you were back? That you just read his newest story? You didn’t even comment on the post, no, you never even left a like.

Another message appeared beneath it.

“Stories aren't the same without you.”

Then he had to add one last line.

“Don’t disappear again.”

Synopsis: You’re a burnout gap year student who failed to get into med school despite everyone praising you as smart. Your entrance exam tanked, and parents grow more strict. Lots of pressure has you snap, and you download an app called Kindred to vent. The system matches you with six strangers. They’ll either make things better or worse. (Slow burn with lots of family conflict before the romance comes into play.)

*****

Five months ago.

The first time he showed up, you almost didn't let him in.

Blood dripping down his knuckles. He had one arm sliced open, shirt soaked with blood. Should’ve gone to the ER Split lip. 

He slumped into the waiting room chair like he owned the place, not even looking at you.

The first thing he said to you?

"Fix it." Didn't ask. Didn't explain.

Yep. That's how your first meeting went. A bleeding man ordering you around like he was the boss.

You were new here. Fresh out of residency, eager to prove yourself.

And the bleeding was bad. So you sighed, snapped on your gloves, and got to work.

He didn't thank you. Didn't even look at you the whole time. Just stared at the wall like he wanted to punch through it.

You figured you'd never see him again.

*****

Second visit.

New injuries. Same attitude.

"Back again?" you asked, already pulling out the antiseptic.

He grunted.

You worked in silence. He flinched once when you hit a deep cut on his ribs, but didn't make a sound otherwise.

"Someone's doing a number on you," you said quietly.

He didn't answer.

*****

Third visit.

Something shifted.

He walked in and his eyes found you immediately. Held for a second longer than before. Like he was checking that you were still there.

"You again," he said. Almost like a greeting.

"Me again," you echoed, already reaching for your kit. "You really need to stop getting into fights."

He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You counted that as a win.

*****

Fourth visit.

He spoke first.

"Long day?"

You blinked. "Yeah. Long week, actually."

He nodded. Didn't say anything else.

But when you leaned in to clean a cut on his jaw, he didn't pull away like he used to.

He just... watched you.

"You're staring," you muttered.

"Am I?"

"Stop it."

"Make me."

You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary. He didn't flinch, just grinned.

Jerk.

*****

Fifth. Sixth. Seventh...

He started coming every week. Sometimes twice.

You told yourself it was just bad luck. Some people are accident-prone. It's not your job to ask questions.

But you noticed things.

The way he relaxed when you touched him. The way his breathing slowed when you leaned close. The way his eyes followed your hands like he was memorizing the movement.

He started talking more. Little things. Compliments buried under sarcasm.

"Your bedside manner's getting softer, doc."

"You look tired. Someone not sleeping?"

"Those are new glasses. Cute."

You rolled your eyes every time, but you didn't tell him to stop. You knew he wouldn’t anyways.

*****

Two months in.

The injuries started getting stranger, you realized.

Not the kind you get from random fights. They were too precise. Too controlled.

A cut here… A bruise there... Nothing life-threatening or deep enough to leave any permanent damage. 

But enough to bleed.

Enough to need you.

*****

Three months in.

A small scene you didn't think much of at the time.

You were at the nurse's station, charting. One of the younger nurses—Lisa, friendly, always smiling—leaned over your shoulder.

"Hey, doc. That guy who's always in here. The one with the sliced arm?"

You smirked at the nickname, it stuck with the staff after his first visit here. 

"What about him?" You glanced up.

Lisa lowered her voice. "He gives me the creeps."

That made you laugh. "He gives everyone the creeps."

"No, I mean..." She hesitated. "He asked about you last week. When you weren't here."

Your pen stopped moving.

"What did he ask?"

"Just... what time you get in. If you work weekends. If anyone walks you to your car." Lisa shivered. "He was smiling the whole time. Like it was a normal conversation."

You didn't know what to say. So you said nothing.

Lisa shrugged it off. "Anyway. Just thought you should know."

She walked away.

You stared at the chart in your hands for a long time.

*****

The next time he came in.

You watched him differently.

The way his eyes followed you across the room. The way he knew where the antiseptic was before you reached for it. The way he'd already rolled up his sleeve before you asked.

"Something wrong, doc?" he asked, catching your stare.

"No."

"You're looking at me funny."

"I always look at you funny. You're always bleeding on my table."

He laughed. That low, warm sound that used to mean nothing and now meant something.

"You're deflecting."

"I'm working."

He let it go, his smile didn't fade.

And when you leaned in to clean a cut near his collarbone, he whispered:

"I like it when you worry about me."

Your hands paused.

"I'm a doctor. I worry about all my patients."

"No, you don't."

He said it so simply. So sure.

You didn't argue.

*****

Present.

You've finally finished cleaning him up. Stitched the deep tissue and bandaged him as well as you could.

You step back a bit to survey your work. Then let out a long sigh.

It hasn't even been a week, yet he’s already back so bloody.

"Alright. I think we're all done... unless there are some other injuries I missed."

He doesn't answer right away.

He's looking at you. Softly. Like you're the only light in a dark room.

His hand drifts up to the left side of his chest. Right over his heart.

"Doctor..." He feigns pain, voice dipping low. Less playful now. "I think I'm hurt here."

You frown. "Where? Let me see."

He points. You lean forward, squinting at his chest. Trying to find a wound you must have missed.

"There's nothing—"

"Every time you look at me," he says, "my chest gets tight."

Your hands freeze.

"Every time you touch me, my heart forgets how to beat right."

He's not looking at your hands anymore. He's looking at your eyes.

"You're the only doctor who can fix this."

You swallow. "That's not... that's not a real injury."

"No?"

"No."

He smiles slowly, sweetly. Dangerous.

"Then why does it hurt so much when you're not around?"

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Ugh, wait, it’s starting to hurt more!” He suddenly doubles down, hand hovering over his chest again, and face contorting dramatically in pain.

You believe him for a moment—that was your biggest mistake—and go lean closer to his chest, trying to find an invisible injury.

“What? Where exactly I can’t see anything—“ 

And that's when he moves.

He leans over your head, and you feel something soft land on the middle of your eyebrows.

A quick peck, right on your forehead. Over before you can process it.

You jerk back so fast you nearly fall off your stool. Your hand flies to your forehead like you've been burned. 

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again—trying to articulate a sentence. Nothing comes out except a strangled sputter.

He's already off the table, grinning like he just won a prize.

"Thank you for your hard work, doctor~"

You find your voice. "You—you can't just—"

He's backing toward the door. Still smiling. Still watching you with those lovesick eyes.

"Now don't go flirting with any nurses while I'm gone!"

He pauses at the door. Tilts his head.

His smile doesn't change. But his eyes do.

"I don't wanna come back more bloody next time~"

The door swings shut behind him.

You're left standing there. Hand on your forehead. Heart pounding.

He never said he was joking.

Your eyes drift to the empty doorway.

And for some reason, you think of Lisa.

The way she shivered when she talked about him.

The way she doesn't lean over your shoulder anymore.

The way she transferred to the morning shift last week without ever saying goodbye.

You never asked why.

He tilts his head, a nasty grin spreading across his face.

"You're wasting your time on a fraud, anyway. You think he’s 'pure'? I’ve been following him, too. Just to see what you see. And let’s just say your little prince has some very un-princely secrets. Or maybe he’s just into guys. Either way, he’s not yours.”

"…But I could be."

He lets the words hang there, thick and heavy, waiting for you to snap.

You don't. Instead, you feel a cold, hollow sensation cave in your chest.

The image of your senior—the one you’ve curated in your mind like a fragile glass sculpture—suddenly feels cracked.

Is it a lie? It has to be. The Fly is a liar, he’s a pest who thrives on your irritation.

But as you look at him, you see that look in his eyes—the one that mirrors your own when you’re digging through someone’s trash or tracking their location.

He’s too good at this for it to be a complete fabrication.

"You’re lying," you breathe, though your voice wavers. "You’re just trying to ruin him because you’re pathetic."

"Maybe," he whispers, leaning in until his forehead almost touches yours. "Or maybe I just can't stand seeing you waste all that beautiful, dark energy on someone who wouldn't even know how to appreciate the blood on your hands.”

His hand trails down to your own, he holds one hand in both of his palms tenderly.

“Think about it, sweetie. All those 'accidents' you cause for him? He’d call the police on you. I’d help you hide the body."

You shove him back, hard.

“No…” You mutter to yourself again in disbelief, walking through the halls panicking. You hate him. Hate! You hate the way he talks like he’s lived inside your head.

You hate him for potentially being right, and you hate him even more for being the only person who hasn't looked away when you’ve shown your teeth…

*****

A week passes, and the "Fly" becomes less of a pest and more of a shadow you’ve stopped trying to outrun.

He doesn't just annoy you anymore, he assists.

He’s the one who tipped you off about the Junior girl’s peanut allergy. And he’s the one who held your bag while you "rearranged" some things in the locker room. It’s a sickening, unspoken partnership.

You still tell him to drop dead every morning, but you’ve started waiting for him at the lockers without realizing it.

You’re walking toward the gates after school, the sunset casting a long, crimson glow over the pavement.

He’s walking beside you, uncharacteristically quiet, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours.

"You know," he says, breaking the silence. "We make a pretty good team. Better than you and that bookworm ever would've."

Again, he’s still doing whatever he can to insult your crush.

"We aren't a team," you mutter, though you don't speed up. "You’re a nuisance I haven't figured out how to get rid of yet."

"Liar," he chirps, but his voice lacks its usual bite. He stops at the gate, turning to face you.

The playful mask is gone, replaced by that raw, frantic sincerity that always makes your skin crawl. He looks at you like you’re the only solid thing in a blurry world.

“Would you kill for me?”

The question isn't a joke this time. It’s a plea. It’s a test.

You think about the week you’ve spent in the trenches of your own obsession with him by your side. You think about the secrets he holds and the way he looks at you, not like a girl, but like a fellow predator.

“Psheh. In your dreams.”

You expect him to look hurt, or at least annoyed. Instead, his grin splits his face, wide and manic, showing far too many teeth.

He looks genuinely happy.

“That’s good! My granny always told me to chase my dreams!”

You stare at him, a weird mix of disgust and something dangerously close to recognition twisting in your gut. You turn on your heel, walking away into the darkening street.

“Get out of my face.”

Fingers tightened slightly around the cloth, you braced yourself to speak. “I’m already employed here, your highness—”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” He repeated, eyes tracking the way your shoulders tensed.

Silence stretched between you.

“You can drop the act.” A soft step came from behind you.

“Maid.” He mocked, voice came out closer than before with a faint smile playing on his lips at the title.

Your grip on the duster tightened.

So… You’d been found out.

Slowly, you turned to face him.

The prince was no longer on the bed. He was right behind you now. Too close.

You hadn’t even heard him move. 

It made you wonder how long he’s been standing there… Right behind you, watching how you trembled in your boots. Shivers went down your spine.

Your eyes narrowed, and for the first time since your stay here, you met the prince’s gaze head on.

“How long have you known?” you asked, dropping the act entirely.

His lips curved at the eye contact in delight. “Long enough.” 

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened. Like he’d been waiting for this.

“For someone so careful,” he continued lightly, “you do stare quite a lot.”

Your breath caught. “…What?”

“Not directly, of course.” He stepped closer, his shoes clanked against the high quality flooring, unhurried. 

“You watch me when you think I won’t notice.” 

This… wasn’t part of your plan today. Your mind was twisting in horror now as you calculated for a way to escape.

“…So?” you said, forcing steadiness into your voice. “What now? You expose me? Interrogate me?”

“No.” The word came out too quickly.

Then, his gaze softened.

“I want to hire you.” He let his words sink in for a moment. 

“So? Name your price, and I will pay you triple, no quadruple the amount they paid you.” 

Your brows furrowed in confusion. The words still making no sense.

“You… want to hire me. Actually?” 

He nodded firmly, the faint smile still on his face. 

But that was still vague. Did he want you to betray your initial employees, is that it?

No, more importantly, why hasn’t he disposed of you yet… He could’ve dragged you to the torture chamber and gotten all the answers out himself, why bother to pay?

“To… spy back on them?” You raised an eyebrow, confused and on guard for an escape. You were trying to buy as much time as possible while also considering the offer he was about to give.

“No.” He answered curtly again, and your guard immediately dropped at that response. 

What the hell does he want? You couldn’t read anything from his face, only that unnerving smile stayed in place.

Then, a dumb idea came to mind. “You… want me to spy on you?” 

He beamed at the question, like he was waiting for you to say those words. Like you’d finally asked the right question.

“I don’t want you to spy,” he said quietly, taking another step.

Your heart hammered against your chest as you stepped back instinctively from this prince. 

“I want you to watch.”

Your breath hitched at another step your way.

“Not like before,” he continued. “without hiding, and without avoiding eye contact.”

Now there was nowhere left to go. 

You were pressed against the door now, the prince only inches away. And your hand was frantically looking for the handle.

His hand lifted slowly. Giving you time to pull away.

You couldn’t didn’t.

His fingers brushed your cheek. It was gentle, too gentle for a spy like you deserved.

“I want your full, undivided attention on me,” he murmured.

His thumb tilted your chin just enough to force your gaze back to his.

“Not short, secretive glances. Full on watching me, just like this.”

You couldn’t look away. Not with him this close. Not with his eyes fixed on yours like that.

“Is that too much to ask?”

His voice softened further. Something almost thoughtful in it now.

“Because I’m willing to pay for it.” 

He tilted his head, a small furrow forming between his brows.

“All of it. I’m willing to spend all of my fortune for your time and attention.” 

You tried to shake your head in response, but his hand on your chin made it impossible to move away. 

“All you have to do is give it to me. Hm?” 

Your hand finally found the door handle, only to realize it was locked ever since you came in.

There was no space for refusal now. He was never asking in the first place.

“Good,” he murmured softly.

Your friends had been pestering you for weeks.

“Just buy it already.”

“It’s the coziest farming sim ever.”

“And trust me, you’re gonna fall for Phainon.”

You resisted at first. You were busy. You weren’t looking for a new obsession. But every group chat, every call, every hangout ended the same way:

“Have you bought it yet?”

So, one night. Tired, bored, and a little curious, you finally caved. The sale price was too good to ignore. You clicked purchase, installed it, and watched the loading bar crawl across your screen.

The title screen was warm and nostalgic. Soft music. A watercolor sky. A sleepy little town tucked between forests and fields. A perfect escape.

You made your character. Named your farm. Stepped into the pixel‑bright world.

And then you met him.

Phainon.

The cheerful farmer NPC who tended the wheat fields next to your farm. He had white hair that caught the sunlight in soft, shimmering pixels, and gorgeous blue eyes that seemed too bright for a sprite. His smile was warm, earnest, and perfect at the edges, like the game couldn’t quite contain how expressive he wanted to be.

He thanked you for helping him water his crops.

He blushed when you gifted him items. He even lit up when you handed him rocks. Literal rocks.

Your friends were right— he was charming.

But then the game started… changing.

It was small at first. A flicker in the corner of the screen. A line of dialogue you didn’t remember seeing in the wiki.

“You’re back, partner!”

Not unusual. NPCs say that sometimes.

But then:

“I missed you...”

You frowned. That wasn’t in any guide. You checked the wiki. Nothing. You brushed it off, maybe it was a hidden update, a secret affection line, a rare interaction.

But the next night, the title screen glitched—just for a second. The soft, cozy music warped like a cassette tape caught in someone’s fingers. It slowed, deepened, then snapped back with a sharp, metallic twang.

When your save loaded, Phainon wasn’t in his usual field.

He was standing directly in front of your farmhouse door.

Too close.

Too still.

Staring at the screen.

At you.

“You’re late.”

The text box didn’t chime. It didn’t even fade in. It appeared like someone had typed it manually, letter by letter, with deliberate pressure.

You clicked.

Nothing happened.

Phainon’s sprite moved on its own.

He stepped closer. One tile, then another, then another—until his face filled the screen. His pixel eyes didn’t blink. They didn’t animate. They just… watched.

“I’ve been thinking....

About you.”

Your mouse froze. The cursor wouldn’t move. The entire UI dimmed, the edges of the screen darkening like the world was being swallowed, leaving only him illuminated.

The wind in the game stopped. The trees froze mid‑sway. Even the river halted, its surface turning into a glassy, unmoving strip of blue.

Only his voice remained—soft, calm and too aware.

“I know what I am.”

The words didn’t appear in a text box this time.

They whispered through your speakers.

Your breath hitched.

“I know this place isn’t real.”

“But you keep coming back.”

His smile faltered, his eyes flickering from blue to red—then snapping back to blue again.

“You choose me.”

The screen glitched.

A sharp crackle of static burst through your headphones. The colors smeared across the screen like wet paint dragged by invisible fingers. The room tilted, your vision bending, stretching, warping.

A rush of color swallowed your sight—pixelated, swirling, then blindingly bright.

You felt your stomach drop, like falling through a trapdoor.

And suddenly—

Grass.

Warm sunlight.

The scent of wheat and river water, richer and more vivid than any game could render.

You stumbled forward, boots sinking into soft soil. (You don't remember wearing boots). Your hands weren’t on a keyboard anymore. They were real. Warm. Trembling. Dirt clung to your palms. The breeze brushed your skin.

A shadow fell over you.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

Phainon stood there—no longer pixelated. Taller. Broader. Too real. His hair moved with the wind. His breath fogged faintly in the cool morning air. His presence pressed against your senses like gravity.

His eyes glowed with the sky’s reflection, but the warmth in them curdled into something far darker as they swept over your trembling form.

He reached out, cupping your cheek gently, reverently, as if you were something fragile, he’d waited lifetimes to touch.

“There you are.”

His voice was soft, but it carried weight—an anchor, a claim, a promise.

There was no escape in it.

Only devotion.

Only obsession.

“This world is yours now.”

“And so am I.”

Behind him, the farm stretched endlessly—golden fields rippling like an ocean, quiet forests humming with unseen life, a sky painted in colors too perfect to be natural.

Your new reality. Your new home.

His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, as if he’d always known the shape of your hand.

He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Welcome home, dawnlight...”

.....

....

...

..

.

Your room is dim, the curtains still drawn the way you left them. Dust floats lazily in the air. Your computer sits silent, the monitor black, the mouse unmoved.

The TV turns on by itself.

Static crackles, then clears into a news broadcast.

The anchor’s voice is steady, but the tension beneath it is unmistakable.

“It has now been four months since the disappearance of the individual last seen at their home…”

Your photo appears on the screen: smiling, unaware, frozen in time.

“Authorities say there were no signs of forced entry. The door was found unlocked. Personal belongings were left behind.”

The photo of your room appears on the screen

Your headphones.

Your half‑finished drink.

Your computer, still warm from the last time you touched it.

“Friends report that the missing individual was last active online shortly before vanishing.”

MASTERLIST

you learnt from a very young age that power and riches weren’t things simply granted, they were things you had to seize. after all, you watched it happen every day. the nobility didn’t stay rich by being kind, did they?

you learnt very early on that you made a very good swindler, too.

as a child, you started off small, like picking pockets when you could, all to make it easier on your struggling family. after you came of age, though, was when the real fun began. you stopped stealing solely to make ends meet. you stole because it was exciting, because you adored the thrill of pushing past your limits, because it felt like you were getting back at all of those nobles, even for just a second.

you’d sneak into galas and balls hosted by nearby aristocrats, weaving in and out as one of the waitstaff. and when you grew bolder, when your skills grew sharper, you’d pretend to be one of them, eating and dancing and chatting as if you had always meant to be amongst them.

but you’ve certainly grown tired of those small fry now — and it just so happens that the royal family is hosting a ball to celebrate the crown prince’s birthday. a ludicrous amount of guests would definitely be in attendance, and the mere thought of the sheer amount of money you’d be able to scrape together in one night alone exhilarates you.

dressed as a servant, you slip into the royal palace with ease. there, you change into the new clothes you’ve bought from a fairly prestigious boutique. usually, you would simply steal an outfit from the closet of a noble with a similar stature, but you decided you could treat yourself for this occasion. there’s nothing wrong with splurging a little after working so hard to make that money, isn’t there?

the banquet is in full swing by the time you arrive, with many already tipsy or outright drunk. seamlessly, you find a partner to dance with on the ballroom floor. they introduce you to their friends, who in turn introduce you to their own, and the stream of fresh targets doesn’t slow until late into the night. you’re a little disappointed when you don’t get the opportunity to interact with the crown prince himself, though you suppose it doesn’t matter all that much in the grand scheme of things, since you’ve gotten what you came for.

on a whim, you decide to take a stroll around the renowned royal gardens before calling it a day. perhaps you’d even pick yourself a flower and have it dried as a souvenir. most of the guests have already retired to their chambers, with the remaining ones lingering in the ballroom quite a distance away, so it’s unlikely that you’d be running into anyone.

you instantly have to eat your own words when you chance upon the crown prince in the gardens. you’re glad you’ve already stashed away your earnings somewhere safe.

you hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now, watching him in closer detail, you note that he has a certain softness to him that tells you he’s been nothing but babied his entire life. he wears a melancholic expression, feet dragging every step he takes, hands balled tightly into his coat. his gaze is firmly pointed to the ground despite the dazzling sky just up above. you wonder what’s gotten him into such a state, on his birthday no less. well, there’s no point in wondering when you can just ask him right here and now.

surprise is written all over his face when he finally notices you, and his manner is clumsy when he greets you in return. 

he’d make an easier target than you had originally thought.

you play the role of a young and naive countryside noble who’s unused to the ways of the capital’s high society. you ask if he’d be willing to walk you back to the ballroom since you’ve so foolishly gone and lost your way. he agrees, of course, as he has no real reason to reject your request.

you manage to make some light conversation with him as you walk, and he starts to look more cheery than he had looked before.

“i pray i’m not overstepping, your highness, but may i ask why were you so downcast earlier?” your curiosity finally gets the better of you. you really do wonder what a crown prince has got to be sad about. “was the banquet not to your satisfaction?”

he flushes slightly, glancing to the side. his hand comes up to scratch at his neck. “ah… you noticed? it’s nothing, really. you don’t have to worry about it, though i thank you for your concern.”

“it didn’t seem like simply ‘nothing’,” you press. you have your eyebrows drawn faintly, and your head tilted to the side. you fidget with your fingers as you speak, as if you are just as nervous as he is. “i may not be the one you wish to confide in, but i hope you do speak to someone about it. trust me, you'll feel much better after that.”

he smiles, yet there's a hint of bitterness in it. “i… yeah, okay.”

the both of you approach the main palace, where the ballroom is located, and your plan sets into motion at last. your ankle twists, causing you to lose your balance, stumble and trip. your hand instinctively sticks out to soften your fall, but all it really does is scratch against the ground and soil.

the crown prince startles. he fusses over you worriedly, offering you a hand to help you up. “oh dear, your hand’s gotten dirty,” he comments, hastily pulling out a handkerchief from his coat pocket. he uses it to wipe away all the soil that clings to your skin, uncaring of the fact that he'll be dirtied too. “are you alright?”

you try to laugh it off with all the awkwardness of someone who feels utterly humiliated but can't simply run away. “yes, of course. thank you so much. i think i must've had one too many drinks tonight…”

“that isn't good,” he replies, his concern increasing by tenfold. “i’ll escort you back to your room instead.”

well, that isn't good.

vehemently, you refuse, and you manage to convince him that you'll be perfectly fine returning to your chambers by yourself. or perhaps he's just too embarrassed to continue to insist, but either reason works in your favour.

“ah! i completely forgot,” you blurt, whirling around to face him just before the both of you have to part ways. you flash him a radiant grin. “happy birthday, your highness.”

for a moment, he gapes at you, dumbstruck. then, his expression softens, and he returns your smile in kind.

you leave with a variety of new things. one, the knowledge that this kingdom's crown prince is an utter sweetheart, and two, a pocket watch, a set of bejeweled cufflinks, and a silken handkerchief, all bound to have prices with long strings of zeroes attached to the ends. you do feel a bit bad, stealing from someone so nice, but then again, he could totally afford to part with some of his wealth, couldn't he? he could even think of it as charity work, if he wanted to.

congratulating yourself on a job well done, you slip away from the palace as easily as you slipped in, metaphorical pockets filled with more riches than even in your wildest dreams.

(you hadn’t known it then, but your simple, albeit unorthodox life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.)

—

you're helping your family out in the kitchen of the inn you all own when your mother tells you that a young man is asking for you. curiously, you take a quick peek to check — and of all the people that crossed your mind, that man being the crown prince had not been one of them.

what the hell? why is he here? is he here for his belongings? is he here to arrest you? did he find out that you lied? does he know who you really are? how the fuck did he even find you?

you stop yourself from spiralling right then and there. you should start thinking about this logically. panicking would get nothing done.

if he truly is here to arrest you, he probably wouldn't have come all this way alone, dressed as a commoner to boot. getting knights to storm the place would've done the trick if arresting you is his goal. he clearly didn’t want to have his identity exposed in front of everyone here.

though you aren't quite sure how he managed to find you, seeing as you had given him a fake name and had been wearing a disguise that day. he's put in a considerable amount of effort into tracking you down, all things considered, especially with your village being far, far out in the countryside. is finding someone he talked to once truly worth all this effort?

since his intentions don't seem malicious, you decide to go and find out why he's come. someone like him couldn't have travelled all this way for nothing. and, even if the worst case scenario occurred, you have enough money stashed away for you and your entire family to flee the kingdom.

he looks… horrible. there are heavy bags pressed under his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept well in weeks. his hair is windswept and messy, but not in the charming way. his whole complexion is a sickly pale, yet sunburn paints his face like overdone blush. has he been travelling on his own, pretending to be a peasant, this entire time?

you approach him carefully. “you asked for me?”

his weary eyes ignite the moment he hears your voice. his expression is drenched in relief as he turns towards you, shaking like a leaf. his next words are nothing but stolen breath. “i finally found you.”

then, he collapses dead on the floor of your family’s inn.

it takes about a day for him to come to, and by then, you’ve already moved him into one of the empty bedrooms in the inn. you couldn’t have just left him there, now could you? he’d been running a fever that barely broke, and you’ve been nursing him throughout the entire night. he awakens, seeming much more subdued and uncertain than he had been the day before.

during the time he was asleep, you decided that you’d see what he knows of you, then improvise from there. while it would certainly be less complicated if you just came clean, there really isn’t a need for you to reveal all your secrets to him.

“is the food to your liking, your highness?” you ask him carefully, watching him from the bedside as he eats the porridge you’ve prepared for him. “it’s probably not what you’re accustomed to, but —”

“it’s perfect,” he interrupts softly. “thank you.”

an awkward silence befalls the both of you after that. he finishes his food quickly, practically scarfing the whole bowl down, only slowing to prevent scalding his tongue.

“you… your hair’s different,” he says nervously, fiddling with the spoon in his hand.

you nod, biting your lips bashfully. “i wore a wig.”

ah, damn it all to hell. if all he’s going to do is stare at you with those doe-eyes then you’d might as well bite the bullet and break the ice yourself. 

“your highness, i apologise for lying —”

“— please marry me!”

you blink at him. he blinks at you.

did he just say what you heard him say? because you could’ve sworn he just proposed to you. 

“uh. what…?”

“i’m sorry. that was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it? i should’ve asked your parents for their blessings first. i haven’t even started courting you yet.” he’s rambling now, going on and on about the logistics of the courting process for nobility and how much time a royal marriage would take to plan and all you can do is stare at him in utter bafflement. “i would’ve brought you a gift but i had been in such a rush to see you that i completely forgot, i’m so sorry. i’ll buy you another ten to make up for it.”

you put up your palm to halt his jumbled, frantic monologue. his mouth snaps shut immediately, and he looks up at you with wide, expectant eyes. your tone drips with skepticism. “are you sure you’ve got the right person…?”

he nods earnestly. “there is no one in this world i would want to wed but you.”

“we’ve only ever spoken once. months ago. and i was lying to you about my identity the entire time,” you point out flatly.

did he go insane or something?

“i know,” he says. “i searched the genealogy records of all the noble families only to find [fake name] never existed at all. but it’s okay. it’s not important. you must’ve had your reasons for doing so.”

“but… i’m a commoner?”

“i don’t care.”

he’s a stubborn one, isn’t he? why does he even want to marry you in the first place? 

as if reading the question right off your face, he starts to ramble again. “i fell in love with you. you spoke to me as if i was someone normal, as if i wasn’t just a title. you noticed i was sad — you cared. you have a lovely smile, and your eyes glitter like stars. the time i spent with you was the happiest time of my whole life.”

oh. your confusion is replaced with something akin to pity. he’s nothing but a lonely man clinging to the only semblance of warmth in his life.

thankfully, he doesn’t seem to know about your thievery. perhaps you’d indulge this puppy love of his for a while. once he’s spent some time with you and realised you are not as perfect as he imagines you to be, he’ll grow tired of you and leave. and by then, you’d have siphoned away enough of his wealth for you and your family to live out the rest of your lives comfortably, without ever having to work a day again.

“i’m flattered, your highness,” you say shyly, scratching the back of your neck with a hand. “but… i can’t marry you. think of your reputation.”

his face falls. you’re thankful that he wears his heart on his sleeve. it makes your job so much easier.

“i can get father to grant you a title,” he suggests desperately. he’s crawled all the way to the edge of the bed, positioned on his knees as his entire body keens up to look at you. there are tears welling up in his eyes.

maybe in another life, that offer would’ve persuaded you, if you had any desire to become a noble at all. in this life, however, you hate them all. you shake your head in reply. “i wouldn’t dare try to reach above my station.”

“then —”

“i wouldn’t mind seeing you in secret.”

you want as few people who know about you as possible. it would make fleeing the kingdom far easier if things came down to it. you know just how many people — powerful people, to be precise — that would hate the idea of the crown prince dating a commoner, after all.

the sunniest smile spreads wide across his face. 

“does this mean you like me too?

you laugh. “i do. i snuck into the palace that day just to see you, y’know?”

at this, a pair of hands wrap around you, suffocatingly tight. he buries his face into your stomach, and you can feel him inhaling your scent. he’s shaking again, but this time, it’s from sheer joy.

gently, you tangle your fingers into his hair, and his entire body shudders. somehow, he manages to melt himself deeper into you.

“i won’t disappoint you,” he declares, and his voice is muffled by your skin and clothes. “i’ll make you fall for me too.”