Ollie’s kitchen was a glittering disaster zone—flour dust in the air, a mixing bowl balanced precariously on top of a stack of old cookbooks, and frosting smudged across one cheek. But their smile was bright. Their energy, electric.

“Okay, so! Shark Fact Number 17 for the day,” they grinned, holding up a hand coated in cookie dough, “some sharks don’t blink—they roll their eyes into the back of their heads instead. Just like I do when people say, ‘Sharks are just ocean murder machines.’”

The chat exploded in laughter.

"unhinged facts ft. ollie 😭" "are you covered in frosting or are you just happy to be here" "i blinked and the kitchen got worse"

They wiped their hands on their hoodie and leaned into the camera, blue eyes twinkling. “Okay but seriously, I know I said I’d introduce someone eventually but uh—my girlfriend’s shy. And taller than me. Tragically taller.”

The chat swarmed.

"EXCUSE ME A GF??????" "drop the hand height comparison rn" "ollie u liar i thought i was the one 😤"

Ollie laughed, cheeks dusted pink, waving them off. “I told you I was taken! You guys just thought I was joking. She’s real, I swear. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

And then… the comment came.

[slipthread91]: yeah sure. you lie about everything else anyway. your ‘girlfriend’ is probably just some made-up fantasy to make yourself more interesting. stop pretending. it’s pathetic.

Everything stopped.

Ollie’s hands froze where they were, still half-raised. Their grin slipped, but only slightly—like a crack forming in glass, small and fast.

They didn’t respond right away.

Instead, they blinked. Once. Twice. Their jaw tensed, just a little.

“…Okay,” they said softly. Their voice was too light. Too careful.

They stared at the screen for a moment too long.

Then, without a word, they turned.

And ran.

The chair squeaked against the floor. The camera kept rolling, catching just the edge of their hoodie as they bolted off-screen. Chat, confused, paused—then began lighting up again in concerned waves.

From off-camera, there was a muffled sound. The scrape of a door. The barest whisper of a startled breath.

And then a voice. Warm. Gentle. Just slightly rough with worry.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

There was no answer. Only the sound of Ollie’s arms wrapping tight around someone—someone tall, someone steady. A soft thump as their body pressed into a chest, buried in the fabric of a hoodie that wasn’t theirs.

“You’re shaking,” the voice murmured. “What happened?”

Silence.

Then the softest sound—Ollie breathing in, sharp and fast, like they were trying to find words that wouldn’t come.

“You don’t have to tell me. Just stay right here.”

Another pause. Another breath.

Then, faintly: “They said you weren’t real.”

The taller woman let out a quiet, sad laugh. “I’m flattered. But I’m real, love. You’re just too good at keeping me to yourself.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Ollie whispered, voice cracking.

“I know. I know. Some people just… suck. But I’ve got you, alright?”

She held them closer. Ran a hand through their hair. Ollie’s fists clung to the hem of her shirt like it was the only thing anchoring them.

On the screen, the chat had shifted completely.

"wait what happened??" "who said something???" "someone seriously said she was faking her gf?? that’s messed up." "ollie pls don’t listen to them. we love you." "i hope your gf gives you forehead kisses rn 🥺🫶" "you don’t owe us anything. take your time. we’ll be here."

Eventually, the screen faded to black. The stream ended quietly—no goodbye, no sign-off.

But behind the scenes, Ollie was held.

Wrapped up in long arms, tears soaking into cotton, fingers trembling but no longer alone.