Cycle I · “The Hidden Voice” · 09

There’s a girl sitting in the blue glow of her laptop, a half-finished drink sweating on the desk, Discord and DMs stacked like dirty cups on the screen. The server that used to feel like home is dead-quiet now — last active message from weeks ago, “we should totally plan something soon,” which never happened. All the usernames that once felt like characters in her favorite show are just… grey circles.

She scrolls up through old logs: in-jokes, late-night trauma dumps, flirty asides threaded between talk of collars and dynamics and “someday.” It’s like replaying a party in screenshots — she can hear the laughter that isn’t there anymore.

New notifications ping from other chats. She doesn’t click them. She doesn’t log out either. She just leaves the window open, mouse hovering over the text box, hoping that if she waits long enough, someone she misses will reappear and prove the story isn’t actually over.

Nothing happens.

The server doesn’t revive. The old scene doesn’t restart. Eventually, she closes the tab, not because she’s ready to move on, but because her eyes hurt from staring at ghosts.

Tomorrow, she’ll probably join a new space. Tonight, she’s just the last one standing in an empty digital room, realizing the party ended a long time ago and she’s the only one still listening for music.

Cycle I · “The Hidden Voice” · 09

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