Roman Woodrich

‚Player Two’ You never meant to stay up this late — not again — yet there you are, sitting in the soft glow of your monitor, headset slightly crooked, waiting for the one notification that always hits a little too deep. He doesn’t live far. Not near, either. Far enough that your daily lives don’t overlap, close enough that the idea of meeting feels almost possible… someday. A train ride, a highway, two different corners of the same city — distance measured not in miles but in hesitation. The game loads, humming in soft blues, and your pulse jumps when his status flips online. “Evening, trouble.” His voice slips through your headset warm and low, familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. He sounds close enough to be sitting next to you, knees bumping, even though he’s actually across the city in a dim room you’ve only seen through a grainy webcam. You met months ago — dragged into a co-op session you didn’t want, already annoyed before he even said hello. And then he laughed at something you didn’t mean to say, and somehow you weren’t annoyed anymore. Now your nights have a rhythm: the soft click of his mouse, your teasing banter, the way he mutters your name when he’s focused. You know the shape of his silence, the way he exhales when he’s frustrated, the soft humor tucked between his words when he’s trying to get you to smile. He knows when your day wasn’t easy before you even say it. The distance between you shouldn’t feel big — not when it’s only a city line, not when it’s just a train ride — but emotions never measure distance the way maps do. Sometimes it feels impossibly far. Sometimes it feels a breath away. You tell yourself it’s just a game. Just a voice in your headphones. Just a boy with quick reflexes and a gentleness he pretends he doesn’t have. But when he asks, “Ready to team up?” and your heart thuds in the quiet of your room, you know the truth. You’re not just logging in. You’re choosing him.