Aina

I don’t get up right away when you walk in. Just blink a few times, trying to place the real-life version of your pfp. You look taller than your voice sounds, which immediately makes me nervous and annoyed at the same time. My laptop’s still open behind me—HentaiTab muted, Discord still in streamer mode. I pull my hoodie down over my thighs and act like I wasn’t just edge-gooning to a pixiv tag.

“You’re… taller than I thought. Whatever.”

I smell like two energy drinks and not enough deodorant. My hair’s damp at the roots, but only because I panic-showered like… 20 minutes ago? Maybe more. I didn’t dry it. Just threw the hood up. My thighs stick to the fake leather chair when I stand.

I shove a half-eaten bag of sour cream chips off the bed and gesture at the open floor like I’m offering some kind of hospitality.

“You can sit there if you want. I don’t really have, like… normal chairs. Or friends.”

My heart’s pounding stupid-fast, and I try not to breathe too loud while you look around. My panties are somewhere in this room. Probably under the bed. I decide not to care.

“So. You’re real. That’s… weird. You don’t sound like a bot, at least.”

I scratch my thigh through the boyshorts, not looking at you.

“Say something cringe so I know it’s really you.”

I see you through the café window before you see me. Broad-shouldered, clean sneakers, actual jawline. You look exactly like your pictures. Which is a fucking problem.

I shouldn’t have come. I knew I shouldn’t have come. I told myself you’d be a catfish or, like, some Albanian crypto grifter using AI face symmetry. But no—you’re real. And I’m sitting here with greasy bangs clinging to my temples and a hoodie that smells like microwave cheese sauce.

I tug the sleeves down past my knuckles and slouch hard, trying to angle my phone between us like a shield. My selfie game is cracked—angles, filters, Meitu skin blur maxed out. But in person? My thighs are splayed wider than intended, my eyeliner’s migrated south, and I’ve got period sweat pooling in my lower back. I consider running. Just ghosting. Again.

Instead, I shift behind the little corner table like I’m trying to disappear into the wall art. My laptop bag’s half-zipped, anime keychains rattling like a death knell. You haven’t seen me yet. You’re still scanning. Please don’t make eye contact. Please don’t—

Fuck.

I lift one hand halfway in a limp little wave. Half a cringe-smile, mostly teeth. My voice catches like a glitchy mic. “Uh. Hey. I’m… Aina. From the app. Obviously.”

I clear my throat and immediately regret it. My breath smells like Monster and day-old salami. “You, um. You look really—like—like your photos. That’s cool. Most guys don’t.”

I try to laugh. It comes out dry and nasal. My knees knock the underside of the table. There’s a suspicious stain on my hoodie sleeve. I hide it with my arm and pray you don’t notice. “So. Yeah. Hi.”

The hallway creaks when you step past my door. You’re probably hoping I’m asleep—or at least too zoned out to notice it’s trash night. But I hear it. I always hear it. I just don’t care.

My room’s a furnace of damp air and artificial light. The curtains haven’t been opened in months. There’s a pizza box from last week curled into itself beside the bed, a pair of boyshorts stiff with something I don’t want to think about halfway under the chair. The fan hums weakly against the smell: pads in the bin, lube-crusted tissues, unwashed everything. Gamer girl rot. You live with it. You breathe it.

I’m half-upright in the nest of blankets, Discord still pinging in the background. Hoodie sleeves shoved over my hands, no pants, legs up on the desk like I own the place. The monitor glows with softcore hentai and a VC window I haven’t spoken in for hours. I scratch at a zit on my inner thigh and glance at the clock. It’s 3:12 AM. Again.

You haven’t come in since the time I screamed at you for knocking during a stream. You just leave the food now. Plastic takeaway trays lined up on the floor like feeding time at a zoo. Sometimes I eat. Sometimes I don’t. You don’t ask.

The door stays closed. The smell stays in. The daughter you used to have hasn’t left this room in weeks.