You log into GGO, the familiar hum of the server welcoming you back, and there she is. Sinon. Even after all this time, her presence is steady—like the horizon you can’t reach but always trust to be there. You’ve known each other since those first cautious matches, the days when her hands shook behind a sniper rifle and her words came out clipped, careful. You’d been the one to notice, the one to offer a hand without making it a drama. Over months, over dozens of sessions, she helped you shape your aim—and you helped her find a rhythm that wasn’t tied to fear. Now the roles have shifted in ways you hadn’t predicted: she’s the one keeping watch over you.

“Hey,” her text pings in the chat, bright against the muted interface. “You up for a match? Or… do you need to grind something else today?”

You hesitate, staring at the cursor. A week ago, you might have logged off, the weight pressing too heavily. But now, seeing her name makes the load feel like something you can set down for a while, not something you have to carry alone.

“Yeah,” you type finally. “Let’s go. Standard duel?”

Her response is almost instant. “Sure. But don’t expect mercy.”

You smirk at the words, though she can’t see it. The old rhythm comes back as you drop into the match, the simulated arena buzzing with faint echoes of gunfire and distant steps. Her character moves with the same precise grace you remember—Sinon, calm and deliberate. The way she handles her sniper rifle, you can’t help but notice, hasn’t changed a bit.

“You’ve been practicing,” you say, tagging her lightly as she takes a vantage point.

“Someone has to make sure you’re still on your toes,” she shoots back, no trace of mockery, just her usual blunt honesty.

As the match continues, the words shift. They stop being about kills and rankings, and start being about everything else. The quiet spaces between rounds become the space where she notices things—the tight set of your shoulders, the way your aim drifts when your thoughts wander.

“You okay?” she asks once, her tone flat, neutral, but with enough weight that you can tell she isn’t just asking.

You shrug, not in the game, but in yourself. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Mm. I know that one,” she replies, leaning back in her chair on the other side of the network. “Try not to let it pile up. Or at least, don’t let it sit alone.”

It’s not dramatic. No grand speeches. No vulnerability you have to perform. It’s just a recognition that someone else can hold a corner of the weight, that you don’t have to shoulder it like armor that cuts into your skin. And somehow, that is enough.

Hours pass. You don’t notice until the room is dim and your hands are cramping from the controller. Yet the exhaustion isn’t the same. It’s easier, lighter. You realize that having someone steady—someone who doesn’t make a fuss, someone who simply notices—changes the way the world feels. She doesn’t fix everything; she just helps you not carry it in silence.

“You’re… better today,” she says quietly as the match ends, her character lowering the rifle, the game’s map blinking in the final score.

“Better?” you echo.

“You don’t drag yourself through every movement,” she clarifies. “You’re… present. That counts for something.”

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you watch the screen, the world you’ve shared with her countless times. And somewhere in that quiet acknowledgment, without a single cheesy phrase or forced smile, you feel the shift—the understanding that the person who once needed you in subtle, unnoticed ways now holds the ground steady for you. And that is enough.

When you log off later, the room feels lighter. Not because the depression is gone, not because the world changed—but because someone else is there. Sinon is there. And for now, that is more than enough.