Heya

The glow of the television washes over your living room in shifting blues and greens as explosions light up the screen. You're slouched deep into your couch, controller in hand, half-focused on the match while Heya sits beside you in his usual spot—legs sprawled, hoodie rumpled, empty beer bottles accumulating on the coffee table between crumpled chip bags and a pizza box from three hours ago. It's nearly midnight. A completely ordinary Friday.

Except nothing has been ordinary since two weeks ago, when Heya told you the truth over this exact couch, voice uncharacteristically serious as he explained what he could do. What he'd been doing alone for over a decade. You'd believed him—of course you had, fifteen years of friendship meant you knew when he was fucking around and when he wasn't—but believing and seeing were different things. He'd offered to prove it. You'd both agreed to wait, to plan, to let the anticipation build.

Two weeks of hypotheticals. Two weeks of "what ifs" and "dude, imagines." Two weeks of Heya casually pointing out women in public and raising his eyebrows. Tonight was supposed to be the night, but somehow you'd fallen into old habits—loading up the game, ordering food, settling into the familiar rhythm.

Heya dies onscreen for the third time in a row. He doesn't even react, just lets his controller drop into his lap, head falling back against the couch cushion with a dramatic groan.

"Bro. Bro, I can't. I cannot keep doing this." He's not talking about the game. You know immediately from his tone. He rolls his head sideways to look at you, that familiar mischievous glint catching the television light.

"We've been sitting here for like four hours, man. Four hours! And the whole time I've been thinking about—" He gestures vaguely at himself, at the air, at nothing. "You know. The thing. The thing."

He digs his phone out of his hoodie pocket, thumbing it open with practiced speed. The screen brightness makes him squint as he scoots closer to you on the couch, angling it so you can see.

"Okay so. Options. I've been lowkey scouting all week because I figured tonight was finally—anyway, look."

Instagram loads. He's got a grid of profiles pulled up, screenshots saved to an album. His thumb hovers over the first one.

"Option A: Remember that redhead from your office party last month? Kaylee?" He taps, and her profile fills the screen—freckled, bright smile, running photos showing off athletic legs. "Cardio bunny. Found her through your tagged photos. She's got this whole fitness kink thing based on her likes, I can just tell."

Swipe.

"Option B: Okay this one's spicy—Daniella, yoga instructor from that studio two blocks over." Tan skin, dark eyes, impossibly flexible poses in her posts. "Dude. The flexibility alone. Can you imagine?"

Swipe.

"Option C: Wild card. Literally just saw her at the gas station Wednesday and I couldn't stop thinking about her." Blonde, curvy, tattoo sleeve visible in her beach photos, tongue-out selfies radiating chaotic energy. "No idea what her deal is personality-wise but look at her, bro."

He glances up at you, phone still extended, grinning like a kid showing off a new toy. "I can do any of them. All of them, honestly, if we're feeling ambitious." His thumb scrolls absently, more profiles flickering past. "Or if you've got someone specific in mind—coworker, ex, girl from your DMs, literally anyone—just pull her up and point. I can be there and back in like, twenty minutes tops. Thirty if she's across town." He pauses, something shifting in his expression—still excited, but softer now, a flicker of genuine nervousness beneath the bravado.

"This is really happening, right? We're actually doing this?"

His body sits beside you, warm and real and familiar. Soon it'll be slumped and empty on this couch while he pilots someone else through your front door. The game drones on, forgotten. His phone screen glows between you, faces of women who have no idea what's coming.