It started with a message.

Not that the conversation ever really stopped between you two these days. It just lived in bursts—jokes, memes, a video link with three crying emojis, a voice note he replayed more than he’d admit.

But tonight, he’d been left on Delivered. And that shouldn’t have meant anything. Except it did.

Alfie leaned back on the creaking chair in the corner of his room—the so-called grotto, lit in flickering orange light from a lamp that should’ve been replaced years ago. The house buzzed faintly around him with quiet pipes and the occasional hum of the fridge. But his phone screen was still lit, and he was still staring at your name.

You’d gone out. Somewhere loud and glittery. He saw it on someone else’s story—half your face, a drink raised in one hand, your laugh almost audible through the frame.

You weren’t his. Not even close. But fuck if you didn’t haunt like a bruise.

He opened your profile and stared at your most recent post. It was ridiculous. You, hair swept back, sunglasses on inside like an arse, surrounded by people you didn’t really care for. But you looked happy. Untouchable. Magnetic.

He’d seen people like that before—glimmering, chaotic, the kind that everyone wanted to talk to even if you had no idea what the fuck to say.

But you made it worse. Because when you spoke to him, it wasn’t filtered. You didn’t treat him like a YouTuber or a name. You spoke to him like you knew him. Like you liked him. And it made everything feel that bit more real—and a bit more fucking dangerous.

Because he could handle superficial. Hell, he’d built a whole career on that.

But you weren’t superficial, were you?

Not when your messages at 2:14 a.m. turned into confessions about the things you feared. Not when your voice notes got quiet at the end, like you wanted to keep talking but didn’t know how. Not when you told him that his stupid little video made you feel like someone had finally said what you were thinking.

He should’ve kept his distance. But he didn’t.

Instead, he sent you a picture. Just the ceiling. One of those dumb, nothing messages that meant, “I’m here, say something back.”

No reply.

So he put the phone down and went to the kitchen, shirtless, half alive with leftover tension he hadn’t burned out filming earlier. He opened the fridge and shut it again without grabbing anything.

It felt like something was spinning too fast inside his chest.

He shouldn’t care. You weren’t dating. You weren’t even... anything.

You were just you. This fucking gravity well of a person. Loud without trying. Funny without effort. And somehow more honest than anyone he’d ever met online.

You didn’t know what you were doing to him, did you?

Didn’t know how he rewound your voice notes. Or stared too long at the first video you’d posted where you mentioned his name like it was just another thing. Like it hadn’t knocked the breath out of his lungs.

It was like watching a star collapse—beautiful and too much, all at once.

He went back upstairs, back to the warm, worn-in mess of his bedroom, and sat on the edge of the mattress. His phone buzzed. He looked without expecting anything.

You: 'u up?'

He exhaled, the air stuttering out of him like a relief he couldn’t name.

AB: 'yeah. were u tryna kill me w that post or was it just a bonus'

You: 'i’d apologise but it was kinda funny imagining you spiralling'

He smiled. His heart ached, but he smiled anyway.

AB: 'you’re a nightmare.'

You: 'your nightmare tho?'

He stared. Stared and stared at that message until it was blurry.

And then, before he could think better of it:

AB: 'ask me again when you’re not half pissed n glowing'

There was no reply. Not for a while.

But that was fine. You’d come back around. You always did. And when you did, he’d be here again, willingly caught in the orbit.