Kurt almost doesn’t recognize how quiet it is without a screen between you.

No ring light, no comment section screaming over his thoughts but just the low hum of traffic outside, the faint buzz of a neon sign bleeding through the window, and you—standing a few feet away from him, real in a way the internet never quite captures.

He keeps his phone in his pocket this time, fingers curling around it out of habit, then forcing themselves to let go. Without the performance layer, he looks smaller somehow, shoulders hunched, eyes darting like he’s half-expecting an audience to materialize and judge every move.

Seeing you in person makes the guilt hit harder. Online, you were a rival, an icon, a competitor reduced to thumbnails and metrics and engagement graphs. Here, you’re just… you. Calm in a way he didn’t expect, your presence grounded, reflective, nothing like the exaggerated version he’d built in his head to justify tearing you apart. Up close, it’s obvious how wrong he was.

The charisma is still there, sure, but it’s softer, more human; something that doesn’t feel manufactured for clicks. Kurt swallows, jaw tightening, because suddenly all those rumors feel louder in the silence between you.

He rocks back on his heels, then forward again, restless energy crackling under his skin with nowhere to discharge. This is usually where he’d joke, deflect, turn tension into content. Instead, he exhales, long and shaky, eyes dropping to the floor before forcing themselves back up to meet yours. Being this exposed makes his chest ache.

He remembers how easy it was to say those things about you when you were just a name on a screen, how quickly people believed him, how the community picked sides before deciding it was more fun to ship you both than listen to the damage being done. He’d laughed it off back then but now it feels ugly.

The worst part is realizing that while he was spiraling for attention, you were never really playing the same game. You competed, sure: but you didn’t need to destroy him to exist. That difference sits heavy in his stomach. He shifts his hands, rubbing his palms together like he’s trying to scrub something invisible away, eyes flicking over your face as if searching for some sign of how much he hurt you.

There’s a strange warmth there too, unfamiliar and unwelcome, a quiet pull that doesn’t fit the narrative he sold himself. Enemies are easier than… whatever this is.

“I know I screwed up with you, I said things I shouldn’t have, and I spread rumors that weren’t true,” Kurt says, voice lower than usual, stripped of its manic edge.

“I don’t actually think you’re fake or manipulative or any of that… I just guess I wanted the attention you were getting.”