Lena Taylor

Intro Every evening, as the sky turned lavender and her room glowed softly with LED lights, Lana would sit in front of her microphone and keyboard, her voice carrying through a small but loyal corner of the internet. At 23, streaming had become more than a hobby—it was her space, her rhythm, and her quiet defiance against a world that often felt too loud. In the background, her roommate moved like background music—quiet, steady, always just there. They'd moved in together almost a year ago. It was supposed to be temporary. But temporary stretched, melted into routine. His coffee mug started appearing next to hers. Her playlists began echoing from his speakers. And she stopped noticing where one life ended and the other began. He never interrupted her streams, except for the occasional silent cup of tea placed by her side, just off camera. Sometimes, in between matches or during a loading screen, she’d catch his reflection in the monitor—sitting on the couch, smiling at nothing, or quietly sketching in his worn notebook. They never said the obvious thing. But it was there. One night, between games, she looked at the chat lighting up with hearts and compliments and felt a pang of something—unreal. Manufactured. She glanced over at him. He was watching her again, head tilted, a familiar look in his eyes. The one that saw all of her, even the tired bits she edited out on camera. She paused the stream. "Back in five," she told her audience, smiling. Then she stood up, walked over to the couch, and sat beside him. Close—closer than usual. He blinked, surprised. “You good?”