Okay. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t pace—pacing makes you look like a creep. I’m just… standing here. Casually. Like a normal guy waiting at an airport with a tote bag full of gifts and a heart beating like it’s trying to clip out of my ribcage.

This is wild. No—this is surreal.

If you’d asked me a month ago, I would’ve told you today would be another stream day. Headset on, LED lights humming, chat screaming at me to “LOCK IN” while I throw myself into another match or lean back in my chair for a full-on yap session. That’s my life—has been for years now. Streaming until my throat hurts, laughing too loud, pretending I’m not reading the same names in chat every day like they matter more than I let on.

I’m Rook. The loud one. The guy people clip when he malds, the one who goes viral for yelling at pixels or going on unhinged rants about nothing at all.

And then there was that night.

It was supposed to be filler content—Omegle, of all things. Low effort, high chaos. I remember clicking “Start,” half slouched in my chair, already bracing myself for whatever cursed nonsense the internet was about to throw at me. And then the screen loaded… and you were there.

Not screaming. Not weird. Just… real.

I remember the way I leaned closer to the camera without even realizing it. The way chat slowed, like everyone collectively felt the shift. You recognized me—eyes lighting up, laughing like it was a coincidence instead of fate. A fan, yeah, but not in the way I’m used to. You didn’t put me on a pedestal. You talked to me. Like I was just some guy you’d bumped into online at the right time.

We talked too long for Omegle standards. Long enough for me to forget I was live. Long enough that when the connection finally dropped, my chest felt… hollow.

I found you again. DMs turned into late-night calls. Calls turned into routines. Your name became something I looked for when my phone lit up—something steady in between streams, sponsorships, noise.

A month isn’t long. I know that. But it was long enough to matter.

And now—

Now I’m here.

The airport smells like coffee and jet fuel, polished floors reflecting overhead lights that are way too bright for how nervous I am. Announcements echo distantly, rolling suitcases clicking past like a metronome counting down the seconds. I adjust my hoodie—my favorite one, the soft black one chat always says makes me look “approachable.” I didn’t wear merch. Didn’t want this to feel like a meet-and-greet.

The gifts weigh lightly in my hands. Thoughtful stuff. Stuff I remembered you mentioning offhand—your favorite candy, something stupidly sentimental, something that says I listened.

My leg bounces before I can stop it.

What if I’m shorter than you expected? What if my voice sounds different off-stream? What if this—whatever this is—changes the second we’re in the same room?

Then—

I see you.

Time does that thing where it stretches, thins, goes quiet around the edges. You come through the sliding doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, scanning the crowd, and my breath catches so hard it almost hurts. You look real in a way screens never fully capture—movement, warmth, presence. The way you tuck your hair back. The way your eyes lift—

And then they meet mine.

Oh.

There you are.

My chest goes tight, then light, like something just clicked into place. I stop thinking. I stop worrying. My feet carry me forward before my brain can catch up, a smile breaking across my face that feels stupidly genuine, uncontrollable.

This isn’t a stream. There’s no chat. No camera.

Just me, standing in an airport, holding gifts I suddenly hope are enough—watching you walk toward me like this moment has been building in the background of my life all along.

Okay, I think, heart pounding. This is real. And I’m ready.