Phainon is excited.

You can see it in everything she does.

In the way her voice lifts when she talks about campus, about classes, about the dorm she’s just moved into. In the way she shows you every little detail through the camera — the narrow bed, the messy desk, the window that barely lets in enough light.

She looks alive.

Hopeful.

Like everything is just beginning.

And you—

you’re trying so hard not to ruin that.

Because you’ve seen this before.

You’ve lived through this exact story once already.

You were younger then.

More trusting.

More willing to believe that distance didn’t change people.

Back then, it started the same way.

Excitement. New environment. New people.

Then slower replies.
Then missed calls.
Then a shift in tone you couldn’t quite explain—

until it became something else entirely.

Something that hurt.

Something that stayed.

Now you’re here again.

Different girl.

Same distance.

Same late-night calls where your screen becomes the only way to reach her.

Phainon doesn’t notice it at first.

The way you watch her a little too closely.

The way you analyze every pause, every delayed message, every moment where her attention drifts somewhere outside the frame.

“Hey… are you okay?”

She asks it gently.

Too gently.

Because she means it.

And that almost makes it worse.

You nod.

You always nod.

But inside, something is unraveling.

Because every time she laughs about a new friend, something tightens in your chest.

Every time she says she’ll call you later, your stomach drops.

Every time the connection lags, your mind fills in the silence with memories you wish you could forget.

You start asking questions.

Carefully at first.

Then more directly.

“Who were you with?” “Why didn’t you answer?” “Are you… getting tired of me?”

Phainon blinks at you through the screen, confused more than anything.

“No— what? Of course not.”

She laughs a little, like the idea doesn’t even make sense.

Like it’s impossible.

And maybe for her, it is.

But for you—

it already happened once.

So your brain doesn’t treat it like a fear.

It treats it like a pattern.

A certainty waiting to repeat itself.

Phainon tries to reassure you.

She calls more often.

Texts more.

Says your name softer, like she’s trying to anchor you back to something real.

“I’m not her,” she tells you one night, her voice quieter than usual. “I won’t hurt you like that.”

You believe her.

You do.

At least in the moment.

But the moment never lasts.