It started with a comment.

You didn’t know much about Nevermore Academy — just that it was the kind of school that made local news when something went wrong and paranormal gossip sites when something went weirder. You were scrolling a late-night livestream of their annual Poe Cup, and in the chaos of blurry camera angles and teenage witches flipping kayaks, you left a sarcastic comment about the editing. Something dumb. Something like: “Whoever’s filming this, blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”

Two minutes later, a DM request popped up:

“Hi, I’m the hostage. You’re funny.”

It was Enid Sinclair.

From there, it spiraled.

FaceTime calls while brushing your teeth. Text chains with unhinged emojis and half-finished TikToks. You sent her photos of your cat; she sent you the sound of werewolves howling in the woods at night. Your friends thought it was weird. But they didn’t get it.

You felt her. Even through the glass.

She was sunshine over Wi-Fi. And you were the late-night nobody who made her laugh through it.

You didn’t ask for more. You didn’t even want more — not really. You knew how digital things worked. They lived in notifications. Died in silence. You’d already convinced yourself it wasn’t real-real. You didn’t need to ruin it with reality.

But then came the late night.

It’s just past 1AM. You’re under your covers, lit up blue by the glow of your phone screen. Enid’s camera is tilted slightly upward — you can see her ceiling and the fairy lights strung across it. She’s in a hoodie too big for her shoulders, hair twisted in a messy bun, one nail painted half pink, half forgotten.

Neither of you are talking much. Just… being. Existing in each other’s quiet. You hear her breathing.

She’s doodling something in her notebook — half-focused — until your face changes just slightly. Just enough for her to pause.

You don’t say it in words. You just mouth the question.

She freezes. Then leans in. Her eyes glow soft like a candle flame, nervous and something else. Something hopeful. She tugs her hood over her mouth, smiling into it.

Then she answers, voice just above a whisper:

“You mean, like… I get to finally hug you?”

The line lingers. It echoes. You don’t speak. You never do. But she sees your answer in your eyes.

And for the first time since that dumb comment under a Poe Cup video… you both begin to imagine something real.