The headset sits on its dock, glowing faintly in the darkness of my room.
Lily's ultimatum echoes through my skull like a mantra I can't silence. No more romance. No more sex. Teammates, nothing more.
The words should be simple to follow. Log in, tell Simon we need to cool things down, rebuild the wall between Kira and whatever we've been becoming. Preserve what little I can salvage before everything detonates.
I know what I should do.
I put on the headset anyway.
The hunger for Simon, even a stolen version of Simon, even a counterfeit wrapped in code and neural feedback, overrides every rational warning my brain tries to send. This is my double life now.
Invisible best friend by day, watching him at the gym with careful, controlled distance—secret lover by night, wrapped in the only identity he's ever wanted. If I can't have him honestly, I'll take the lie and hate myself for it later.
The login sequence pulses through my vision. Colors blur, reshape, solidify. When the world renders complete, Kira stands in the tournament lobby, and SimonTheGreat is already waiting.
His avatar brightens the moment I appear—shoulders straightening, smile spreading across his face with that eager energy I know so well. In the real world, that energy is never directed at Gordon.
It's reserved for gym buddies and casual conversations, for women he's trying to impress, for a digital girlfriend who doesn't actually exist.
"Hey, you." His voice is warm through the headset, intimate in a way that makes my real chest ache. "I was starting to think you weren't gonna show. Everything okay?"
"I'm here." The words come out flatter than I intend, Kira's usual warmth stripped away by everything bleeding beneath the surface. "Just running late."
Simon's brow furrows. He steps closer, reaching for my hand the way he always does now—natural, possessive, like touching me is his right. I step back before he can make contact.
The hurt that flashes across his face is a knife in my ribs.
"Kira?" His voice shifts from warm to concerned. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired." I keep physical distance where before I would have leaned in, arms crossed over Kira's chest like armor. "Long day. Didn't sleep well."
"You've been saying that a lot lately."
He doesn't close the gap I've created, but he doesn't retreat either. His avatar radiates tension, confusion, the beginnings of something that looks dangerously like fear.
"You've seemed off since... you know. Since we were together. Did I do something wrong? Was it too fast? Because if you need space, I can give you space, I just need you to tell me—"
"You didn't do anything wrong." The words tasted bitter. "It's not about you."
"Then what is it about?" His voice cracks slightly, vulnerability bleeding through in a way that makes me want to cross the distance and hold him. "Talk to me, please. I thought we were past the part where we keep things from each other."
The irony is so bitter I almost laugh. We've never been past that part. Our entire relationship is built on the biggest secret I've ever kept.
"I'm stressed about the tournament," I say, grasping for excuses that sound plausible. "This qualifier matters. If we don't make it through, all of this was for nothing. I just need to focus on the game right now, okay? Can we do that?"
Simon studies me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes. He wants to push. Wants to demand answers, to understand why the woman who was melting in his arms two days ago is now treating him like a stranger.
But Simon has never been built for confrontation with people he cares about. He'd rather swallow his own confusion than risk driving someone away.
"Okay." The word comes out heavy with everything he's not saying. "If that's what you need. We can focus on the match."
He pauses, then adds quietly, "But after we win this thing, we're talking. Really talking. Because something's going on with you, and I'm not gonna pretend I don't notice."
"After the match," I agree, because it buys me time. Time to figure out how to follow Lily's rules without losing Simon entirely, time to construct new walls that can hold back the flood of everything I feel for him.
Time I don't actually have.
"Alright." Simon rolls his shoulders, visibly shifting into competition mode. "Let's warm up, then. Get our heads in the game. This qualifier isn't gonna win itself."
We move to the practice arena, running through combinations that used to feel effortless. But the synchronization we had before is fractured now, damaged by my distance and Simon's confusion.
He keeps glancing at me between drills, searching for something I can't give him. I keep my eyes on the targets, the obstacles, anything that isn't his face.
"Kira." His voice cuts through after a particularly sloppy sequence. "You're pulling left on your deflections. And you're not calling out positions like you usually do."
"I know. I'm adjusting."
"You're not adjusting, you're overthinking."
He moves closer, and this time I don't step back fast enough. His hand lands on my shoulder, warm even through the digital rendering.
"Whatever's going on in your head, you need to put it aside. Just for the next hour. Can you do that?"
I look at him, really look, and see the man I've loved for three years wearing the face of a stranger.
SimonTheGreat is Simon turned up to eleven, all the physical perfection amplified, but underneath the avatar is the same person who claps my real shoulder at the gym and calls me his best bro without knowing he's breaking my heart.
"I can do that," I say. "Let's queue."
The matchmaking system accepts our entry. The countdown begins, loading us into the final qualification round—hostile terrain, high stakes, our playoff spot hanging on this single match.
The arena that materializes is a nightmare landscape: jagged rock formations, limited cover, visibility constantly shifting as digital sandstorms sweep across the field.
"Stay close," Simon says, all business now. "We move as a unit. No splitting up, no hero plays. Whatever's happening between us, we deal with it after. Right now, we're partners. That's all that matters."
Partners. The word lands differently than it used to.
"Right," I say. "Partners."
Our opponents spawn across the field—a duo I don't recognize, their avatars sleek and battle-scarred. They move with the confidence of players who've been here before, who know exactly what they're doing. This won't be an easy fight.
"Thirty seconds," Simon murmurs. "You ready?"
I force myself to concentrate. To sync with Simon's breathing, his positioning, his rhythm. To bury everything that's bleeding inside me beneath Kira's confident exterior.
Lily's ultimatum fades to background noise. My father's face fades. The gym, the parking lot, the moment our hands touched and Simon's eyes flickered with something I couldn't name—all of it fades.
There's only this. The arena. The match. The chance to be perfect with him one more time.
"Ready," I say, and I almost mean it.
The countdown hits zero. The barriers drop. Our opponents surge forward, and Simon moves to meet them with me half a step behind.
I play like my life depends on it. Because in some ways, it does.
Every deflection is precise. Every call-out arrives a split second before Simon needs it. I cover his blind spots, exploit gaps in enemy positioning, move through the chaos like the game is an extension of my nervous system.
The distance I've been keeping vanishes when survival demands synchronization. We become what we were before—two halves of a single mind, reading each other without words.
"Left flank!" Simon shouts, and I'm already there, intercepting a strike that would have caught him exposed.
"Push center!" I call back, and he surges forward without hesitation, trusting me to cover his advance.
The score climbs in our favor. 2-0. Then 3-1. Our opponents are good, but we're better—not because of individual skill, but because of this. This connection. This impossible understanding that transcends the lie between us.
Simon catches my eye between rounds, and he's grinning. Fierce and alive and so beautiful it hurts.
"There you are," he says. "There's my girl."
The words crack something open in my chest.
My girl. I'm not his girl. I'm his best friend wearing a mask, stealing moments that don't belong to me.
But right now, in this arena, with victory within reach and his voice in my ears, I let myself pretend.
Just for a little longer.
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