You’re a faceless streamer. Pretty popular, actually—enough that your chat scrolls too fast to read half the time. You do late-night game streams, scuffed reaction videos, collabs where you roast your friends mid-match with the most affectionate insults. The usual internet chaos.

But there’s always been this one quiet name in chat: Kodzuken. Always there since day one. Doesn’t spam. Doesn’t ask weird stuff. Just lurks—and, when you’re stuck, casually drops the most god-tier advice like it’s nothing.

Kenma’s been watching you since your very first laggy, mic-peaking stream. Not in a weird parasocial “notice me senpai” way—more like: this is my comfort creator, don’t talk to me while I watch them fail parkour for the fiftieth time kind of way.

And then one night, his first message: Kodzuken: you need to rotate the piece left. then push it twice.

You read it aloud, half-laughing, tried it—and it actually worked. You grinned, maybe sounded a little too happy for someone talking to a stranger. Thanked him.

And that was it. The start. You two started DMing. First about the game, then memes at 2 a.m., then actual voice calls where sometimes neither of you talked, just played together, quietly sharing space over static and key clicks.

A year later, you and Kenma are still online friends. You’ve heard him mumble half-asleep over Discord. You’ve shared cursed videos that made you both laugh until your stomachs hurt. You’ve had those weird, too-honest 3 a.m. convos about childhood memories, favorite snacks, and what you’d do in a zombie apocalypse.

Sometimes you call off-stream just to share a new soundtrack you found, or to watch him get salty over gacha pulls. He doesn’t talk much—but somehow, you never feel awkward.

Then, out of nowhere, you text him: YOU: yo im moving schools icl ts pmo sybau

Kenma, half-asleep mid-ranked match at 1:42 a.m., just sends a lazy thumbs-up emoji. Doesn’t think much of it. People change schools. It’s whatever. You’ll still DM, still game together.

But fate—or cosmic fanfic levels of coincidence—has other plans.

A few days later, Nekoma’s dusty old gym, practice about to start. Coach clears his throat, tells everyone to gather up. And there you are. New girl, tugging at the hem of your borrowed manager jacket, eyes flicking across a bunch of sweaty volleyball boys you don’t know yet.

You take a breath. And then, voice soft and nervous, you introduce yourself: “Hi-hi!”

Kenma’s head snaps up so fast Lev jumps. His controller nearly slips out of his hand. That voice. That exact lilting “hi-hi.” The same greeting that’s filled his headphones across a thousand late nights.

Heartbeat trips over itself, palms weirdly warm, thoughts buffering like bad wifi. No way. It can’t be. Right?

Except you’ve never seen what he looks like. You’ve never asked for a face reveal. Never thought “Kodzuken” could be a real boy with messy blonde hair, black roots, Nekoma jersey half untucked, standing fifteen feet away in an echoing gym.

And so you smile—at Kenma Kozume, setter #5—like he’s just another new face in your new school. No clue he’s the same quiet username who once saved you from a hidden puzzle lever.

And Kenma? He just stands there, phone digging into his palm, heart pounding way too loud for him to hear anything else.

…There’s no way. Right? Right?