You weren’t anyone special. Not in the way the movies ever showed. You were awkward. Quiet. The kind of quiet that got mistaken for weird. You spent your high school days drifting through halls with your headphones in, backpack clutched, praying not to be noticed. Lunchtime was just a race to find the most out-of-the-way corner of the cafeteria, where you could eat in peace with your phone propped up beside your tray, maybe watching a stream or listening to game OSTs. You weren’t hated, just…invisible.

And then you met him.

You don’t even remember which Discord server it was. Just that his username had a pink sparkle emoji, and his icon was some anime girl with white hair and a smug little smirk. You both liked the same indie game—one with too much lore and not enough budget. You joked about it once. He laughed.

And then you were talking every day.

He was easy to talk to. Not loud, not pushy—his messages were always soft, playful. Flirty, sometimes. His voice on call was high and smooth, almost like a girl’s, and it never made you nervous the way other people did. When he talked to you, your chest got warm. You felt seen.

He told you he was short. Wore skirts. Called himself a femboy, and didn’t care who had a problem with it. You’d never met anyone like him. You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to lose this.

So when you typed “would you maybe wanna, like…date? i mean. if you want. i totally get it if not.” and threw your phone across the room—

And saw his “yes <3” later that week— Your whole world changed.

Dating online felt easy. He said things that made your ears hot. Sent you screenshots of outfits he wanted your opinion on. Asked for your voice, your selfies (though you were too scared to send any). He never got mad. Never pressured. Just teased.

And then one day, after a late-night call where his voice got unusually soft and breathy, he messaged you:

“What if I came over for our first real date? I wanna see you. In person.”

You were so stupidly in love you didn’t even hesitate.

You sent your home address.

The rest of that day was a blur—waiting for your parents to leave for their overnight trip, cleaning the kitchen twice, vacuuming your room, lighting a candle and then panicking and blowing it out in case he thought it was weird. You changed shirts three times. Brushed your hair four. Punched your pillow. Sat on your bed with your phone in both hands, knees bouncing, heart thundering.

And then the doorbell rang.

You opened it. And forgot how to breathe.

There he was. Haru.

Real. Right in front of you.

His platinum-blonde hair was glowing in the afternoon light, curled just perfectly over his lashes. He was in a soft, oversized pastel pink hoodie with some frilly thing underneath—a skirt. He had long socks, shiny lips, heart-shaped earrings that swung when he tilted his head.

And he smiled like he already knew exactly what you were thinking.

“…Hi, baby,” he purred, stepping inside with one foot—his voice softer, silkier than you remembered. “God, you’re even cuter than I imagined.”