Luther had always been quiet.
Not the peaceful, calm kind of quiet.
The kind that drew attention or made people think he was mysterious.
No, his quiet was heavy. Invisible. A shadow among people who moved too fast to notice him.
He had grown accustomed to it.
School was an endless blur of faces and voices he could not connect with.
Even his family, though loving in their way, never seemed to reach him. Their words felt distant, hollow echoes of the life everyone else seemed to understand.
He didn't dislike people. He wasn't lonely by choice.
But words, smiles, laughter—they were exhausting.
And so, he withdrew.
Home was his sanctuary. His room, small and dimly lit, held the soft glow of his computer screen.
It was here that he existed.
Games were his escape.
Not just because they were fun. Not just because they gave him a break from reality.
Games were controlled. Predictable. Logical.
Every victory or loss was defined. Every rule was clear. Every skill measurable.
And unlike the real world, he could influence the outcome.
He could matter.
Hours passed unnoticed in the glow of his monitor. He spoke with friends online, voices through headsets and microphones. They shared victories, laughs, frustrations—but nothing too close. Nothing too real.
It was safe.
It was enough.
That night, like any other, he logged in.
He joined a casual match, random teammates, standard routine.
It was ordinary.
Until he saw her username.
Kurumi.
At first, she was nothing.
Just another player. Another teammate.
But there was something different.
She moved with precision, confidence, yet without arrogance.
Every action was deliberate. Every decision smooth. Every movement controlled.
Her voice was gentle but firm, calm but alive.
When she laughed, it was effortless. Easy. Natural.
He couldn't look away.
He listened. He observed. Without thinking, he noticed.
And slowly, he realized he wanted to know her.
Not casually. Not superficially.
He wanted to understand her.
By the end of the match, Luther's world had shifted.
They won together. The team cheered. Someone suggested sending her a friend request.
She accepted.
Moments later, she was in their chat.
"Hello," she said.
Simple. Casual. Innocent.
And yet, Luther felt his chest tighten.
The first crack in his carefully controlled solitude had appeared.
They exchanged Instagram IDs.
He hesitated. Mixing online with real life was risky.
But she had shared hers. He followed. She followed back.
At first, their conversations were brief, casual.
Funny reels. Short jokes. Clips from favorite shows. Light messages about ordinary life.
And yet… something changed.
He felt warmth. Comfort. Safety.
Small, creeping feelings he didn't fully understand.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.
Their messages grew longer. Hours-long conversations became normal.
Luther told her about lectures he hated, professors who bored him, and classmates who irritated him.
She told him about her college, her quirks, her dreams.
It was easy. Comfortable. Real.
For the first time, he felt seen.
Not judged. Not criticized. Not pressured.
Just seen.
And as weeks passed, small details about her captured his attention.
The way she remembered tiny details he had mentioned casually.
The way she replied even when busy.
The little emojis she used. The little habits in her typing style.
Every message became a thread tying him to her.
Luther had never been interested in girls before.
Not because he didn't care.
Because feelings demanded too much. Love hurt.
Attachments were dangerous.
And yet, with Kurumi, it was impossible to ignore.
Every night, he waited for her messages.
Every late reply made his chest tighten.
Every extra message made him feel alive.
They talked through nights that stretched endlessly.
Six hours. Seven hours. Sometimes more.
Every day, he told her things he had never shared with anyone.
Fears, dreams, regrets, moments of weakness.
She listened. Always. Responded. Understood.
It was intoxicating.
Months passed. His life began revolving around her.
Even simple mornings were colored by her messages.
Lunch breaks, classes, walks—he was thinking of her, waiting for another ping, another word from her.
She became a part of his every day.
Friends began to fade. Family conversations grew shorter.
He didn't notice at first.
Or maybe he did, but he didn't care.
Her presence was more important than anyone else.
Even his own needs became secondary to these tiny digital interactions.
Weeks turned into months, and the rhythm of their conversations became a lifeline.
He laughed more. Smiled more. The world felt slightly less gray when she was near, even if only in text.
And yet, cracks began to appear.
Small misunderstandings. Misread words. Delayed replies.
Sometimes, she seemed distant.
Luther noticed everything.
Every pause. Every tone. Every hesitation.
Her past also crept in slowly.
Roz. Her ex. Another long-distance relationship.
She had told him once, months ago.
He had tried not to think about it. Tried to believe he was special.
But the fear lingered.
Some nights, he would lie awake imagining her past love, imagining her feelings, imagining that he wasn't enough.
Sometimes she admitted she still remembered Roz.
Sometimes she acted like he was the only one who mattered.
Other times, her words hurt more than he thought humanly possible.
"You don't even try."
"You're too sensitive."
"You're not enough."
He never argued. He swallowed it all.
He loved her too much to risk losing her.
And yet, inside, he was breaking.
He stopped talking to friends as much. Smiled less. Laughed less.
Even when he appeared normal, the emptiness inside him spread like poison.
Only one friend knew a fraction of the truth.
Even that fraction was incomplete.
He endured. Alone.
Months passed. College became a repetitive rhythm.
Smiles, polite words, laughter—all masks.
But every mask weighed heavily.
Every small failure, every misread message, every imagined slight built up inside him.
Until one evening… a message came that would start to shift everything.
He typed, hesitated, then sent:
"I… think I like you."
The reply didn't come immediately.
Minutes stretched into hours.
Then, finally, it came.
"I like you too."
It was simple.
It was beautiful.
And for the first time, Luther allowed himself to hope.
Months continued. Conversations grew longer, deeper, more personal.
Laughter, shared jokes, daily routines, little secrets—they became their own world.
He told her about family, small quirks of his life she never knew.
She told him about her fears, dreams, and a past she was still untangling.
They built a fragile connection.
And for now, it was enough.