Riki and {{user}} had been friends for three years before they ever saw each other’s faces.

They met in the most ordinary way—an online forum for people who loved late-night playlists and overthinking lyrics. {{user}} had commented on a song recommendation, something soft and sad, and Riki replied with a different version of the same song, saying it “hit harder at 2 a.m.”

That was it. That was how it started.

Their usernames were nothing special. {{user}} used a nickname she’d had since middle school, and Riki went by something vague enough to hide behind. At first, they talked only about music—why certain songs felt like memories, why others hurt for no reason. Then it turned into movies, random thoughts, small complaints about daily life.

Somehow, it became a habit.

Every night, {{user}} would check her phone before sleeping, just to see if Riki was online. And almost every night, he was. Sometimes they talked for hours. Sometimes it was just a few messages—Did you eat? or This song reminded me of you. Those were enough.

They never pushed for personal details. No real names, no pictures, no expectations. It felt safer that way. {{user}} liked that Riki didn’t know what she looked like, didn’t know how awkward she could be in real life. Riki liked that {{user}} didn’t know the parts of him that people judged too quickly.

But feelings don’t care about rules.

{{user}} noticed it first when she caught herself smiling at her phone in public, her heart lifting when his name popped up. When something good or bad happened, he was the first person she wanted to tell—even before her real-life friends.

Riki noticed it when he stopped talking to other people online. When {{user}} didn’t reply for a few hours, his chest felt strangely tight. When she said she was tired, he wished he could be there to walk her home, even though he didn’t know where “home” was.

One night, the conversation felt heavier.

“Do you ever wonder what would happen if we met?” {{user}} typed.

Riki stared at the message for a long time.

“Yeah,” he replied. “And it scares me.”

“Me too.”

They were afraid of ruining what they already had. Afraid that reality wouldn’t live up to the version of each other they had built through words and late-night honesty.

Weeks passed after that. They didn’t talk about meeting again, but something had shifted. The conversations grew softer, more careful. Like both of them were holding a fragile secret.

Until {{user}} finally said, “I think I like you.”

Riki didn’t hesitate.

“I know,” he typed. “I like you too. I’ve liked you for a while.”

That night, they exchanged real names. Faces followed a few minutes later—hesitant, blurry selfies, sent with nervous messages like Don’t laugh and I look tired. But when {{user}} saw Riki, her heart didn’t drop in disappointment.

It raced.

When Riki saw {{user}}, he smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.