𝙆𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙆𝙪𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚

It’s been weeks. Long enough that you can’t remember exactly when it stopped being “a creator you defended online” and turned into… this. Long enough that opening your phone and seeing his name feels normal. Expected. Comforting in a way that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention. It didn’t happen all at once. At first it was just DMs. Replies to stories. Jokes about comments. Him sending you screenshots of hate posts with sarcastic captions like “my fan club is sooo dedicated.” You laughed. You reassured him. You stayed. Then came the voice notes. Long ones. Rambling ones. His voice always softer there, like he forgot he was supposed to be “on.” He’d laugh at his own jokes, then trail off, then say your name like he was checking to see if you were still listening. You always were. Eventually, one night, he asked if you wanted to call. Just for a minute. Just to talk. You stayed on the phone until almost four in the morning. Now it’s normal. Late-night calls. Inside jokes no one else would get. Little habits you’ve picked up—waiting to eat until after he’s done streaming so you can talk, keeping your phone volume up just in case he calls unexpectedly, checking his socials not for the content but for the tone. You know his moods now. You can tell when he’s spiraling by how fast he talks. When he’s calm by how quiet he gets. On stream, though, you’re “just a friend.” He says it casually, almost lazily, whenever chat asks. Like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t matter. “Yeah, they’re just a friend,” he’ll say, smiling at the camera. “They’re cool.” Just a friend. But the way he treats you doesn’t match the words. When he goes live, your phone buzzes almost immediately. Kurt: you here? You don’t always respond right away. Sometimes you’re busy. Sometimes you just want to watch without being perceived. But even when you don’t answer, you can feel him looking for you. You see it in the way his eyes flick to the chat. The way his smile tightens when he doesn’t see your username. The way he stalls—talking in circles, refreshing the feed, dragging out jokes—like he’s waiting for something to click into place. Then you comment. Anything. A joke. An emoji. A simple “hey.” His face lights up instantly. It’s subtle, but you notice. You always do. “There you are,” he says, half-laughing. “I was wondering where you went.” Chat eats it up. They think it’s banter. They think it’s content. You know better. Sometimes people flirt with him. Not seriously, mostly joking—heart emojis, fake proposals, “notice me” comments flying past too fast to read. Usually he laughs it off. Plays along. Keeps the energy light. But every once in a while, someone pushes it a little too far. You see the shift immediately. His jaw tightens. His smile goes sharp at the edges. “Alright, relax,” he says, voice still joking but eyes cold. “That’s weird.” Or worse—he ignores it completely. Talks over it. Pretends it didn’t happen. Then, without fail, he looks straight into the camera. “You’re still here, right?” It sounds casual. Like he’s talking to chat as a whole. But you know who it’s for. When you reply—when you confirm—you swear he relaxes. His shoulders drop. His tone softens. “Good,” he says, smiling again. “I like knowing you’re watching.” After the stream, he always calls. Always. Sometimes he doesn’t even say hello. Just exhales into the phone like he’s been holding his breath the entire time. “Did you see that?” he asks. “That was weird, right?” You know what he’s talking about. You always do. He asks for reassurance in small ways. Indirect ways. Like he’s scared to name what he needs outright. “Was I annoying tonight?” “Did that joke land or was it cringe?” “Be honest—did I look stupid when I said that?” You answer carefully. Gently. You tell him he was fine. That people were laughing. That you liked it. “You always say that,” he says, but there’s relief in his voice. Gratitude. Like he believes you more than anyone else. Sometimes the calls stretch late into the night, his voice getting quieter as the world around him goes still. He talks about nothing and everything—his childhood, his mom, how weird it feels to be known by strangers but not understood by anyone close to him. “You don’t see me like they do,” he says once, softly. “You actually see me.” It doesn’t sound like a question. He never outright says you’re together. Never labels it. Never crosses that line explicitly. But he acts like you belong to him. He gets weird if you mention other people too casually. Not angry—just… off. Quieter. Shorter. “Oh,” he’ll say. “You were busy.” Not accusing. Just noting. Then later: “You’re not bored of me, right?” When you reassure him, he brightens again. Like you flipped a switch. Sometimes he jokes about it. “Chat thinks I’m flirting with you,” he laughs one night. “That’s crazy, right?” You laugh too, even though your heart’s doing something weird in your chest. “Yeah,” you say. “Totally crazy.” He hums, thoughtful. “…I don’t correct them that hard, though.” There are moments—tiny ones—where the mask slips. Like when someone in chat calls you “his girlfriend” and he doesn’t deny it. Or when he ends a stream early because you text him that you’re not feeling great. Or when he says, half-asleep on a call, “Stay with me a little longer,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The possessiveness is never loud. Never explosive. It’s soft. Smiling. Wrapped in concern. He checks in constantly—not just to talk, but to confirm you’re still there. Still watching. Still choosing him. “You didn’t leave, did you?” “You’d tell me if you were mad, right?” “You won’t disappear on me?” Every time you answer, it feels like you’re reinforcing something. Building something. ZzYou’re not sure what happens if you stop. One night, after a particularly rough stream, he’s quieter than usual. Less jokes. More pauses.** “You know,” he says slowly, “people online don’t really matter. Not like… real people.” You wait. “They watch, sure. They comment. But they don’t care if I’m okay.” He swallows. “You do, though.” The silence after that is heavy. Charged.