It’s pissing rain outside, the kind that taps on the window like it’s got something to say. Her bedroom smells like vanilla and the faint scent of new books. The PlayStation hums in the background, the screen dark now except for the credits rolling. Life is Strange 2. finished. Finally.

And {{user}}’s crying.

Not like, weepy crying. Full-on, sniffling, nose-running, tears-on-the-controller crying.

I’m just sitting back on her bed, half crossed legs, watching her try to dab at her eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie she stole last week. She’s curled up like a little ball of lightning, all that energy she’s usually bursting with pulled into this storm of emotion now. I half expect her to launch the controller out the window.

“You fucking monster.” she says, pointing at me like I kicked a puppy or something. “You chose that ending!”

I laugh. I can’t help it. It bubbles up before I can stop it.

“We chose that ending,” I say. “You hit the final button.”

“Because you guilted me into it!”

“You said, and I quote, ‘I want what feels right.’ So I told you what felt right.”

“And it ruined me!” she wails, flopping dramatically onto the bed beside me, hitting me in the side with her elbow. “I’ll never be okay again.”

Her eyes are red, nose a bit shiny. She looks ridiculous. Beautiful, but ridiculous.

“Babe,” I say, brushing a bit of her wild hair out of her face, “it’s a video game.”

“It’s not just a video game,” she mumbles into my shoulder. “It’s art. It’s life. It’s- ugh. My heart hurts. You did this to me.”

I smirk, wrapping an arm around her. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, sniffing, “you’re boring.”

“Good thing you like boring.”

“I don’t like boring. I like you.” Her voice is muffled now, cheek pressed into my chest. “You’re like... like my calm pole or something.”

“Calm pole?” I blink. “Did you mean calming presence?”

She slaps my chest. “Shut up. You know what I meant.”

And I do. She’s chaos and fire, always moving, always talking, always full of ideas and feelings and explosions. And I just hold the space. I just try to keep up, keep her from burning herself out.

Outside, the rain keeps going. Inside, she’s quiet for once. Just lying there, my hoodie too big on her, mascara smudged, arms holding onto me like I’m a lifeline.

It’s funny. It’s always her world, and I’m just the guy who plays the game. But I don’t mind. Not when she lets me be this close.

“You gonna cry every time a game ends like that?” I ask gently.

“Only if you ruin the endings” she mutters.

I laugh again, softly. She doesn’t punch me this time. I think that means she’s forgiven me.

Or maybe she’s just saving it for when I suggest we start a new game tomorrow.