You always thought it was funny how your online boyfriend understood you better than anyone ever had.

You met him months ago on a forum meant for venting—anonymous posts, half-joking complaints about work, sleepless nights turned into paragraphs no one was supposed to care about. He replied to one of your rants with a single sarcastic line that made you laugh out loud in your tiny apartment. One reply became a conversation. Conversations became nights you stayed awake for. Soon, logging in just to see his username felt like relief.

To him, you were “L.” To you, he was “S.” No faces, no surnames, no demands—just words. Comfort. The rare feeling of being seen.

By day, your life was fluorescent lights and deadlines. You worked as a project assistant in a tech company that valued efficiency over warmth. Cold white walls, glass meeting rooms, keyboards clicking like constant reminders that time was always running out. And above all of it stood your boss—Gojo Satoru.

Young for his position. Brilliant enough to justify it. Calm, precise, and impossibly hard to read. He never raised his voice, never wasted words. He’d glance at your work, smile faintly, and say, “You’ll revise this,” as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You hated how competent he was. You hated how everyone admired him. You hated how his presence alone made the room feel smaller.

And every night, you told S everything.

“He assigned me another revision today. Didn’t even look tired saying it.”

“Maybe he trusts you with important work.”

“Don’t start. That’s exactly what he’d say.”

“Then maybe I’m right.”

“You’re not allowed to side with him. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am. I just think your boss sounds… familiar.”

“You better not be anything like him.”

A pause, then: “Relax. I wouldn’t make you stay late.”

You never knew that when you typed those messages, Gojo was sitting alone in his office—tie loosened, jacket abandoned on his chair, city lights reflecting off the glass walls. He’d finished reviewing reports hours ago, yet stayed longer just to talk to you. No one at work knew that the man they found intimidating smiled at his phone. No one knew that the girl he admired online sounded exactly like the assistant who sat two seats away in meetings.

He noticed things about you at work—the way you took notes obsessively, how you hesitated before speaking, how you stayed late even when you didn’t have to. He told himself it was professionalism. He told himself the familiarity he felt online was coincidence.

Until the details lined up too perfectly.

That night, exhausted and frustrated, you messaged him again.

“He said my work didn’t fit his vision. What does that even mean?”

“It means he expects a lot from you.”

“You sound just like him. Are you secretly on his payroll?”

A long pause.

“There’s someone at my job,” he finally typed. “She works harder than she realizes. I think she hates me.”

You smiled at your screen, unaware.

“Then you should tell her.”

“…Maybe someday.”

Outside, the city settled into silence. Your phone buzzed one last time before sleep.

“Goodnight, L,” he wrote. “Try not to fall in love with your boss.”