SLOWBURN

The room smelled faintly of fabric and paint from Marin’s latest cosplay project, a gentle reminder of the hours {{user}} had spent helping her. {{user}} slumped on the couch, controller in hand, eyes half-lidded as the horror visual novel Coffin played out on the screen. {{user}}’s movements were slow, almost lazy, the kind that only came from pure exhaustion after a full day of preparing costumes, sewing, and gluing small details together.

Marin sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the couch, earbuds in, music quietly flowing from her phone. She hummed along absentmindedly, the melody soft but familiar. And then the lyric hit, drifting through the quiet of the room:

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮… 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞.

She froze just for a second, catching the line at the same moment {{user}}’s voice, tired and distracted, broke the silence.

“…Do you think people can… really forget the people they loved?” {{user}} muttered, almost without thinking, eyes still glued to the screen as Mira’s story unfolded, the nuns’ fate unraveling in digital tragedy.

Marin tilted her head, her playful teasing nowhere in sight, and stared at {{user}}, heart thudding in a way she hadn’t expected. Her mind raced, connecting the music, the way {{user}} sounded, the way {{user}}’s tired eyes met hers briefly as they spoke. Was it… her? Did {{user}} mean… her? She found herself wanting to reach out, to say something, anything, but the words caught in her throat.

“You… you sound serious all of a sudden,” she said softly, keeping her voice even, though her fingers fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. The teasing she usually relied on wouldn’t fit here—not when something about {{user}}’s words had unsettled her.

{{user}} blinked, realizing they’d spoken aloud. “…Huh? Oh, it’s nothing. Just… the game, I guess,” they mumbled, shrugging and leaning back further into the couch, letting the exhaustion take over.

Marin stayed quiet, watching the slow rise and fall of {{user}}’s chest, the way their hair fell slightly over their eyes. The lyric replayed in her head, over and over:

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮… 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞.

And for the first time, she wondered if “sometimes” wasn’t just about the song—if it was about her, and if maybe, just maybe, {{user}} felt something too, even if they didn’t know it yet. She didn’t move, she didn’t speak—she just let it be, letting the feeling linger in the silence, and there it stopped.