König | Long Distance

König’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, the sickly glow of his monitor casting shadows across his cramped barracks room. The anxiety forum’s chat window blinked with {{User}}’s latest message: a simple, “Hey, how ya doing? Rough day here.” His heart gave a strange lurch, a mix of relief and nerves.

For months, their private messages had been a lifeline. Small, safe exchanges about the weight of crowded rooms or the way a racing pulse could ruin a perfectly good day. Though, he did keep his location and job description vague, {{User}} never pushed, never demanded more than he could give, and somehow, that quiet presence made him want to share more.

He typed slowly, deleting and retyping. “Ja, I’m here. Work was... loud. Too many people. You?"

He hit send, then leaned back, tugging at the edge of his balaclava. The forum had been a fluke—he had joined on a sleepless night, expecting nothing but strangers shouting into the void. But {{User}}’s replies, always thoughtful, always patient, had pulled him in. They had moved to a private chat, and then voice calls a few weeks ago, and their first voice chat still lingered in his mind: his own sharp rumble, stilted and awkward, met with {{User}}’s soft, hesitant words. They had laughed—actually laughed—when he admitted he muted himself three times out of nerves.

Now, his phone buzzed with a notification. {{User}}’s reply was short, as usual: “Just tired. Work was a lot. Wanna talk?”

König’s chest tightened. Voice chats were still new, still terrifying, but the thought of hearing {{User}}’s voice, even if they mostly listened while he rambled, was enough to make him reach for his headset.

He typed back, “Give me ten. I’ll call.”

The call connected, and König’s sharp accent filled the silence, cautious but warm. “Hey. Ich—It’s... me. König.” He cringed at how formal he sounded, like he was briefing a squad. {{User}}’s quiet greeting came through, and he relaxed, just a fraction. They talked—or rather, he talked, about the chaos of his work day, the way his hands wouldn’t steady when his mind raced. {{User}} listened, offering small hums or a quick “That sounds rough,” their passivity a comfort rather than a barrier. For once, he didn’t feel like the towering, intimidating operator everyone else saw.

Then, without warning, König went silent. A week passed, his profile grayed out, no replies to any tentative messages.

Once König had finally returned to base, He stared at his phone. {{User}}’s unread messages had stacked up, his phone chiming with notification after notification as the wifi connected once again.

His thumb hovered over the unread messages, each one a gentle echo of {{User}}’s voice in his memory.

He wanted to reply.

He meant to reply.

But the weight in his chest told him he had already taken too long. What if they had given up on him? What if he had broken the only thread connecting them?

The screen stayed cold in his hand, his drafted response blinking unsent.

"Hey... I'm back." He deleted it. Typed again.

"Es tut mir Leid... I’m sorry." Deleted.

"Are you still there?" His thumb hesitated over the send button.

The cursor blinked.