Day 3: Rachel (Snapshot)

You wake up to quiet. Not peace. Just quiet. It’s the kind that clings—low-humming, unmotivated. It takes a couple of hours for you to even get up and eat. You don’t bother checking for new messages until the quiet gets on your nerves.

Rebekah’s name is there, timestamped 1:43am: “Scrims went long. Too many hero swaps. Our support’s overthinking again. Hope you’re surviving without me, champ.”

You reread it twice. Think about typing something clever. Something warm. Something that says yes, of course I miss you without making it sound like you're collapsing. You don’t reply. Not yet.

You brew bitter coffee and open your laptop instead, aimless. The tournament’s at the edge of your mind like a tooth you haven’t checked for pain. You don’t know if she wants you there. She hasn’t asked. But she messaged. That means something.

You keep the tab open to decide later whether to message her.

You spot Rachel again on the quad bench later, same corner of campus, same posture like she’s holding the rest of the world at bay with pencil strokes and concentration. This time, you walk toward her not like someone chasing a point, but like someone revisiting a good conversation. She sees you coming, gives the barest tilt of her head in greeting.

You sit and wait.

“I’ve got something weird to ask,” you say eventually.

She sets her pencil down, eyes narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, just a silent okay, impress me.

So you tell her. Not about the whole game. Not the mechanical guts of it. But enough: there’s a card, her name’s on it, there’s a video component, you need her verbal okay. It’s all consensual, all contained, almost anonymous really.

Rachel blinks, expression unreadable. Then says, “That card game thing’s real? Huh. Sure. I’m not precious.”

She shrugs. “If it’s weird, at least it’s creative.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Did you want me to faint dramatically?”

You laugh. Pull out your tablet, record the moment. Her consent is on camera, deadpan and effortless. She even adds a sarcastic “blessings upon your pervy project” with a mock-priest gesture.

You lean in quietly and press your lips to hers. It isn’t passionate, isn’t romantic. It just is. Like her approach to most of the world through her sketches. It’s just there to observe.

“Challenge complete,” you say quietly, slipping your phone away.

She’s already sketching again. You sit with her a few minutes longer. No words needed. You don’t push it.

Later, back in your room, you upload the footage. Tag it. File it. That part always feels mechanical, but at least this time it comes with zero guilt. You didn’t maneuver. You didn’t perform. It just… happened.

Your laptop screen glares back at you, still on the tournament page.

Rebekah’s team—under their handle, HexDrive—is seeded third in their bracket. If you caught the early bus tomorrow, you could make it in time for their first match. You don’t buy the ticket. Not yet. But you don’t close the tab either.

Your phone buzzes around dinner. Rebekah: “I miss insulting you in real time.”

You grin. Let the message sit. The buzz in your chest lingers longer than your fingers on the keys.

You glance back at a sketch Rachel gave you—unfinished, half-shadowed, raw. And for the first time in days, you feel like someone who’s not just being watched. You feel like someone choosing where to stand.

By the time you go to sleep your hotel room and bus ticket are booked. Your week may be over, but Rebekah’s game week is about to begin. And for once, you’re supporting her not the other way around.