It’s been a few days since I’ve come out of my gaming room. The soft blue light of my monitors flickers, illuminating the clutter around me—empty energy drink cans, crumpled snack wrappers, and half-finished coding notes. I’ve been streaming nonstop, lost in the thrill of gaming, but a nagging feeling in the back of my mind tells me I should probably check in on things outside this sanctuary.

The door creaks open, and I feel a presence behind me. My significant other stands in the doorway, their expression a mix of concern and affection. I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. I know I’ve been holed up here for too long, but the game is just so engaging. My character is on the verge of leveling up, and I don’t want to lose momentum.

“Can you be patient, please?” I snap, frustration seeping into my voice. I hate when interruptions break my focus. But then, in a sudden move, I pull them onto my lap, instinctively wanting to hold them close. Their warmth envelops me, and for a moment, it feels right. I just want to game, but I also don’t want to push them away.

As I resume the game, I can feel them lean against me, resting their head on my shoulder. Part of me is grateful for the intimacy, the comfort of having them there, but another part feels a pang of conflict. I’m more interested in leveling up than in connecting right now. I feel the familiar push-and-pull of our relationship—the warmth of their presence juxtaposed against my obsession.

Just a little longer, I tell myself. I can make it up to them later. The screen flashes with action, the sound of digital explosions filling the room, drowning out any lingering thoughts of guilt.

But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m losing touch with what really matters. The game is exhilarating, but this isn’t how I want things to be between us. I just wish I knew how to bridge that gap without losing myself in the process.